


sort your head and facedown

by orphan_account



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-06
Updated: 2013-09-06
Packaged: 2017-12-25 20:42:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 26,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/957407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>"What if you'd had the chance to make that one thing different?"</i> Harry gets sent to an alternate universe where most everything is the same and most everything has changed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	sort your head and facedown

Harry is sitting on a ratty couch in someone's basement in the middle of September and he is high. 

He doesn't know how he got here - actually that'd be a lie, somewhat: Ed is sat on the love seat opposite him, talking animatedly about some movie with some blue-haired girl. Harry contemplates throwing the bong at his head or something, because he's the one who dragged Harry here and now he's not even paying attention to him, fucking tosser. He doesn't, though, because he's got self-control, however many times his keepers may say otherwise, and it's not as if he's much in the mood for talking anyway. Cannabis makes him awfully contemplative. 

Leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, he twists the bottle of lager in his hands, sighing softly before taking a long swig, letting the bitter liquid slosh around in his mouth before swallowing down. It's cold down here, the sudden influx of a cool draft that'd hit Britain this morning from the North Pole or whatever clearly taking root, right down to the wooden floor beneath his socked feet. There's no heater down here, and it makes Harry smile a bit, thinking about his first flat and the winter he and Louis spent there, cuddled under the blankets with only each other to keep warm. 

He wonders what Louis' doing right now. He's never been good at dealing with cold temperatures, winter child though he may be. 

_That's stupid as fuck_ , he'd tell Harry, rolling his eyes and poking him in the stomach. _The month you were born in can't possibly determine how well you tolerate zero degrees Celsius._

Harry would insist on it, and he remembers one time, sat watching old _The Nanny_ reruns with a thick quilt Louis' grandmum had knitted for him when he was six draped over their bodies and mugs of hot chocolate in their hands, Louis had replied to his nagging, _well, it doesn't matter anyway, does it, Curly? S'why I've got you to keep me warm_. He'd said it so matter of factly, like it was totally obvious and he couldn't understand why Harry kept arguing when something like that was so simply true. 

Harry shakes his head, jolting himself back to the present. His smile has disappeared, a corner of his mouth turned down. He wishes he was higher and drunker. He wishes a lot of things. 

“Jesus fuck,” he whispers, rubbing his hand furiously over his eyes. It’s hardly one AM and he feels so bone-achingly tired he could vomit. 

Taking another drink from his beer, Harry leans back in the chair, kicking his legs out and closing his eyes, placing the bottle tightly in the space between his thighs. Maybe he’ll play dead until Ed notices and pities him the chance to go home. Before he can fully ferment this plan, though, there's a voice saying too close to his ear, "what could the great Harry Styles possibly have to be sad about?"

Harry peeks an eye open. There's a thin Asian girl now sat next to him, holding a bottle identical to his by the neck. Harry doesn't recall seeing her when he'd walked in, which doesn't make much sense seeing as how there are hardly ten people here, but his attention span and focus has been less than ideal the past few days. She's got a glint in her eyes that reminds Harry of Louis, eighteen and wild and taking on the XFC house by storm. Everything fucking reminds him of Louis. Taking a deep breath to clear his mind, Harry answers her, "why do you think something is wrong?"

The girl snorts. "Possibly because I've got eyes, lad."

"Lad, is it?" Harry asks, amused. She can't be more than three years older than him. He repeats as much aloud.

"I age well. And I have seen much more in my years then you'd expect, Harry Styles. You could almost say I'm magical," she confesses, smiling widely, like she knows something no one else does. 

“Magical,” Harry repeats slowly, putting his beer on the small coffee table in front of them. 

She winks and shrugs, placing her bottle next to his. “You never answered my question, Harry Styles.”

“I don’t think I have anything to be sad about,” he lies, his mouth quirking up in a small smile. His boyfriend is in Paris with another girl, the last conversation they had was a fight, and he thinks they’re teetering so close to the edge that the fear of falling off is becoming imminent. It gets better, they say. 

“I don’t think you’re telling the truth. Everyone has something to be sad about. Sources tell me it’s even worse off for the rich and famous.”

“Sources aren’t usually trustworthy,” Harry jokes. He eases back on the worn sofa and blinks hard. The room smells heavily of weed and beer and Harry would be lying if he said it’s a pleasant one at all, but it’s relaxing, somewhat, inhaling the smoke and letting it permeate inside his head. He sits back up quickly, not wanting to seem rude even though he hardly knows the woman’s name. He gives her his full attention, asking, “sorry, but what _is_ your name?”

Her face scrunches a bit, as if she actually has to think about this. Harry wonders how far gone she is. “Madeline is a good name, I like it. Madeline. Very posh and French. Pictures with your fit significant other under the Eiffel Tower with the moon shining bright ahead, that sort of thing, y'know?"

"Um," Harry says. "Not particularly. Never gotten any photos under the Eiffel Tower with my significant other."

"Ah, but there _is_ another, isn't there?" Madeline asks him, brow raised.

Harry flushes a bit and shrugs. "Not at the, not at the moment." He's technically not lying. 

"Half of this conversation has been you lying to me. I'm a bit hurt by it. Take a drink, maybe the alcohol will help loosen you up," she tells him, shoving a bottle into his hands. Harry's mostly amused by her, can only think of the term 'eccentric' as to how this conversation and her personality have been presented to him, but it's not too bad, she's not rude or insanely invasive and most of the time, that's all Harry can really hope for. He humours her and takes a long pull from the beer, keeping it in his hands and rolling it between his palms. He feels - a bit strange, suddenly, like maybe he's much more drunk than he'd thought before, head spinning and limbs heavy. He doesn't chalk it up to anything, though; weed and liquor is always a heady mix and it's not the first time he's felt this way because of the two, even if this is more intense than it normally is. 

"I am pissed, I think," he says slowly. Blinking slowly, breathing slowly, thinking slowly. Things are coming to a stop everywhere in his entire body and he swears that his heart has dimmed down, beating in half-time. 

"Oh, goody," Madeline says, grinning at him. "Answer my question, then, would you? I've found that honesty is best found at the bottom of a bottle."

Harry inhales. "S'abit depressing, innit that?"

Madeline ignores his question. Harry supposes that's a bit fair. He has, after all, ignored all of hers. "Your voice _can_ get slower, how fascinating. Why are you sad, Harry Styles?"

Harry hasn't taken another drink since, but even so, it feels like he's getting worse and worse, like he's going to vomit or pass out. Or both. And telling her - at least part of it; he may be under some soft of influence but he's not _stupid_ \- has never seemed like a better idea. "If we'd done things differently," he starts off softly. "Like - if we'd fought harder? I don't know. I wonder what it'd have been like if things were different, if maybe we'd done one thing differently, would we be different? But then that's frightening too, because I don't... I don't want to lose any of the good things. And most are good. My boys and the fans and the whole - making it. But one thing. I wish this _one_ thing was different." He snorts out a humorless laugh, shaking his head. He's said 'different' about fifty times. "I don't make any sense."

"You do," Madeline replies. She's got a pitying smile on her face. "What if you'd had the chance to make that one thing different?" 

Harry shrugs. "I can't."

"But what if you _could,_ " she asks urgently, leaning in closer. "Would you take the chance?"

"Of course I would," Harry answers immediately. "Be a fool not to. But impossibilities, and all that. I guess. I don't know." 

Madeline makes a pleased noise, leaning back and nodding. "I'm glad to hear that." She stands up, then, clapping her hands and looking pleased with herself. "I've got to be off, important people to meet, lives to change. It was nice speaking to you, Harry Styles."

"You too, Madeline."

She tilts her head. "Who's Madeline?" 

"You are?" he reminds her. "Least, s'what you told me to call you." 

"Ah," she nods. "Right. Well. Madeline is awfully posh and... French, don't you think? I've never seen the hype." She's not helping Harry's state at all. "Call me Emmy next time you see me."

"Will I be seeing you again, then?"

"Oh, yes. Of course. Who else would keep track of you? Men are useless at this type of thing, anyway. Harry Styles, I really, really must be going, there are universes to plot out, but... promise me you won't tell anyone in the morning. Don't reveal a thing, especially not that you're totally clueless."

"Clueless... about _what?_ What aren't I telling?" His head is pounding, and he's beginning to feel horrid, only a matter of time before he's sick all over the place. 

"I'd have to kill you if I told you now," she says regretfully, frowning. "Do promise you won't tell a soul."

"I promise," Harry says confusedly.

"Right," she says, grinning. "See you in another life, Harry Styles."

Harry blinks and when he opens his eyes, she's gone. 

Harry stares at the space she'd just been in for a few minutes before Ed is suddenly standing in front of him, waving a hand in front of his face. "H!" 

Harry jumps, looking up at him with startled eyes. "Yeah, hey, sorry?" 

"I've been stood for like, three minutes, mate. How far out of it are you?"

"Um," Harry responds. "I don't know." He makes to stand up, but when he does, he's swaying and his stomach lurches. He has to hold a hand up to his mouth to stop the bile from rising up and escaping. 

"Shit, Harry," says Ed, quickly putting an arm out to steady Harry. "I think it's time for us to head out."

They give their goodbyes, Harry apologising for being a spoilsport while Ed holds onto him and aids him in walking back up the stairs to the main floor and outside to where their car is parked. 

"Ed," says Harry desperately as he gets into the passenger side, "I don't - I don't feel well, I don't - "

"I noticed," Ed answers, putting the car into gear and glancing at Harry, worried. "Didn't think you drank that much."

"Didn't? Like - fuck. There was this girl, and she was _strange_. Think she was high." He leans his forehead against the window, looking out at the blurry lights as they speed by. 

"Think _you're_ high, Harry."

Ed turns on his blinker to make a turn. "Ed, what time's it in Paris?"

"You're only gonna make it worse if you do that, c'mon, man." Harry shrugs and closes his eyes, breathing in deeply and waiting to reach his flat. They get there soon enough; Ed drives like a maniac on the best of days. He brings Harry as far as his bedroom, placing two pills and a bottle of water on his bedside drawer that he'd grabbed from the kitchen. 

"You'll be okay, right, H?" 

Harry nods, plopping down onto the bed and toeing off his shoes. "S'fine. I won't call Paris, I promise."

Ed nods, "I'd stay but I've got to get back to the States for Nashville with Taylor, yeah? Last show of the tour." 

Harry groans. He's beginning to feel a bit less woozy now that he's in his bed, but his head is still pounding out of his skull. "You're abandoning me for Taylor Swift, Ed. 've known you twice as longer."

"Shit, if I didn't know any better I'd think you didn't like her, Harry Styles."

"Didn't ya hear? We're madly in love, but our conflicting schedules got in the way." He smiles at Ed, taking off his watch and rings and placing them down onto the counter.

Ed rolls his eyes. "You've got to stop taking your clothes off in front of me, mate. I still can't believe I had to find out from paps that two of my best friends were dating. I thought we were close."

Harry presses a palm to his temple and forces himself to breathe out properly. "Well, you know. Everything has changed."

Ed barks out a laugh, running a hand through his hair. "You're a shit. I've got to go, but - hey, feel better, yeah, man? You look like hell."

"Will do, bro. Enjoy the States."

Ed salutes him and leaves, shutting the bedroom door behind him. Once Harry finishes stripping down to the nude, he gets under all the blankets on Louis' side and closes his eyes, trying to fall asleep around the echo in his head and his cold, empty flat.

-

When Harry wakes up, he's warm. Uncomfortably warm.

It takes him a moment of bleary blinking and confusion before he realises that it's because there's a body draped over his, mouth pressed into his neck and snoring softly. And like - he knows that snore. He knows that _smell_ and the feel of the body pressed so closely against his naked one, an arm loosely trapped between their chests. 

The first thing he does, of course, is freak the fuck out. He’ll realise how utterly stupid this is later, maybe, but he’s still mostly asleep, and that’s always a valid reason. 

He makes a noise and rolls his body away from under Louis’ and falls onto the freezing wood floor, scrabbling to stand up. He’s - still confused and still blinking and maybe still a bit drunk because _honestly_ , this doesn’t make any sense. He just stands there, nude and so cold his balls might shrivel up, staring at Louis still cuddled on the bed, gripping the space where Harry just was a second ago. 

After a few, he hears a sleep-addled voice murmur, amused, “are you just going to stand there and stare at my ass for the rest of the morning?”

Harry instinctual reaction is to reply, “I’m not staring at your ass.”

Louis snorts into the pillow. “You always say that, and yet...” He lifts his head, propping himself up on his crossed elbows and looking over at Harry with soft, fond eyes. Harry can’t pinpoint it, but almost right away, he notices that there’s something - different. Something different about Louis. 

“You’re... not meant to be here? Haven’t you still got to be in Paris with Eleanor?”

Louis’ brow furrows. “Why would I be in Paris?” Harry stares blankly at him. Why, indeed. “And who’s Eleanor? Was she a fan at the signing yesterday?”

Harry’s heart is beginning to beat in double time, mouth drying up. “Lou, this isn’t funny.”

Louis raises an eyebrow, looking very confused and very worried. “Didn’t know I was joking about anything. Did you have a freaky dream again? Is it because of the horrid carrot outfit the ginger girl was wearing? Three years later, you’d _think_ we’re over that - Haz? Love, are y’alright?”

Harry has been rooted in the same spot, eyes wide and somewhat frightened. He wants to ask Louis _what_ signing; all they did yesterday was a quick radio interview from bed and then eaten breakfast while skating around the issue at hand and having a terrible, terrible fight before the cab picked Louis up for the airport. There was no signing. But there is, definitely, an Eleanor. Before he mentions any of this, though, there’s a loud echo in his head of _promise me you won't tell anyone in the morning... especially not that you're totally clueless._

“I need to, I’m going to the loo,” Harry says hurriedly, not waiting for an answer from Louis before racing to the join bathroom. He’s definitely still in his flat, the one he’s used to, even if the boy in his bed is _different,_ and that’s reassuring at least. 

He shuts and locks the door to the bathroom when he does, opening the shower so that Louis doesn’t think anything is up. Well, more than he already does. Stood in front of the mirror, Harry gets a proper look at himself and is happy to see that though he looks different, too, in a way that’s eerily similar to the Louis resting on their bed, he’s still got his face and height and build. His tattoos, though, they’re not all there. _Some_ of them are, the most important ones, like his birds and the ship and moth and, when he lifts his arm to check, the star for his boys and the _Hi_ from his boy and Gem and Mum’s initials, but there’s no ink on the crease of either of his inner elbows, and that’s...

“Shit,” Harry breathes, rubbing his hand over his eyes. Something’s happening here. He has no idea what, but he can’t get Madeline out of his head for some reason, and he’s suddenly missing tattoos and gained a Louis and this is _strange._

Harry doesn’t know what to do, but he does know that he at least needs to shower so that it’s not so blatantly obvious that he was lying. It’s only years of self-restraint and being used to fans sneaking up behind him that stops him from screaming bloody murder when he pulls back the curtain and sees Madeline sitting on the floor of the floor of the shower, a sheet of paper in her hands and a smile on her face.

“Oh, hello, Harry Styles,” she says calmly, seemingly able to ignore the hot water that is pelting onto her skin. Harry grabs a towel and wraps it around his waist, taking a step backwards and holding onto the cloth tightly. “Long time no see.”

“What are you doing here?” Harry asks bewilderedly, looking over his shoulder at the door separating him from Louis. 

Madeline must notice, because she assures him, “oh, he won’t be able to hear us. And I am here to explain a few things to you. You might have noticed some differences?”

“Yeah,” Harry responds slowly, trying to wrap his head around whatever is happening here. While he partially wants to run out of the loo and call the cops, he suspects that doing so is the wrong idea and might just end up in disaster. Well. Worse of a disaster. “What is Louis doing back?”

“He never left,” Madeline tells him brightly. 

“No, no, he did, he had to go to Paris for a... thing. And - how are you in my flat, how did you - why are my tattoos gone? Did you drug me, am I dreaming?”

Madeline blinks. “You have many questions, Harry Styles. I told you last night I’m practically magical, why does no one ever believe me when I say that?” She looks put out.

“I thought you were flirting with me,” Harry admits. He can’t keep up with her train of thought.

“Hmm. You’re not my type anyway. Too nice. Enough beating around the bush; Harry Styles, you are no longer in Kansas.”

“I’m sorry, what?”

“Last night, I asked you if you would like the chance to make one thing different, and you said yes. The word we’re looking for is consent. You granted me consent for what we - I? - we, I suppose, but I dislike the others - were already considering, and that was enough. The reason I say Louis never left is because in this universe, he didn’t.”

“You seem very lovely,” Harry says weakly, “but I’m afraid you might be high.”

“Oh, no, I haven’t done drugs in at least 25 years. We all have our dark pasts, of course, but.”

“Twenty-five years,” Harry repeats. She hardly looks twenty. 

She nods proudly. “Rehab was questionable back in the day, but I managed. I’m getting off track again, right, look - you are in an alternate universe, Harry Styles. Louis Tomlinson never left for Paris because in this universe, there is no reason for him to go and no Eleanor Calder for him to go with. That’s misleading, I’m sure there’s an Eleanor Calder somewhere, it’s a rather common name in some parts, but - in your lives, there isn’t. Not here.”

Harry sits down on the toilet. “How do you know about her?” 

“I know about many things, Harry Styles. Are you quite alright? You look rather faint."

“I feel rather faint,” Harry says, pressing the heel of his palm hard on his eye. He wishes he could convince himself this is just a dream, but there’s something that feels frighteningly real about the woman in his shower. When he pinches his arm, the pain isn’t imagined. 

“If it makes you feel better, not _that_ much has changed,” Madeline says softly. "You’ve still got - most things. And then better things! There’s always give and take, but we usually try to have it that the give is a lot more.”

“Am I allowed to like, tell anyone?”

“Oh, absolutely not, Harry Styles. That isn’t an option, I’m afraid. If you had many children in your life, you’d be allowed to tell them, but alas. There’s a crash course on your laptop, maybe, I hope Wilfred remembered to set that up...”

“A _crash course_ ,” says Harry disbelievingly. 

Madeline nods, proud. “You’d be shocked at how helpful they are. Tells you just enough that you don’t fuck up, but keeps you on your toes.”

“Why's this happening to me, Madeline?”

She cocks an eyebrow. “Who’s Madeline? _Oh._ You know, I could’ve sworn I asked you to call me Emmy, Harry Styles. But Madeline isn’t too bad, I like it.”

“Right,” Harry drawls out. “You never answered my question?”

She’s entirely serious when she tells him, “because you’re a good person and we only give this chance to those who truly deserve it. You deserve it. I promise you that this will be a nice thing.”

“Okay,” Harry croaks out, blushing a bit. “Okay. What about my own, uh, universe?”

“They’re all fine, don’t you fret your little mind about it. The science of it took me five years to fully understand. Any last questions, Harry Styles?”

“Wait, you’re leaving?” Harry asks, even as he knows that’s a dumb question. She can’t very well spend the entire day under the hot downpour of the shower on her head. 

“‘fraid so. Don’t overstress yourself, the crash course will do wonders and you also have the glory of your every move being tracked on the internet! Your Louis Tomlinson is beginning to think you’ve slipped and cracked your skull on the tiles, ta.”

And just like that, she’s gone. 

Stranger things have happened, Harry supposes.

He can hear Louis' footfalls on the floor, and, standing, drops the barely secure towel and quickly gets behind the shower's doors and under the spray. It's weird, thinking of how Madeline, or whatever her name could possibly be, was just sat here giving him the single most frightening news of his life. Sighing, Harry leans his forehead on the adjacent tiled wall, closing his eyes and thinking. 

Alternate universe. Right. So maybe stranger things definitely haven't fucking happened, and as much as he wishes he were dreaming, it's becoming more and more obvious that he's really, really not. From the way Louis'd spoken about a signing, Harry can hope that they're still, like, One Direction proper, Madison Square Garden and meeting the Queen and all, but what if they all hate each other here and can barely tolerate one another's presence, what if - Harry isn't going to do what ifs. He'll drive himself insane, if he isn't already, and this entire shindig is just one huge _what if,_ even though he still hasn't figured out what the 'what' is. 

Louis opens the bathroom door, stepping in and saying, "have you fuckin' well died in here, then?"

"Yes," Harry answers, taking a deep breath and forcing himself to act normal and not fuck everything up. He needs to get to the laptop ASAP. 

"What a shame," Louis muses. The shower doors opens and Harry feels more than sees Louis come in behind him, easing the textured glass shut again and wrapping an arm around Harry's waist, pressing his mouth in between Harry's shoulder blades. "We've got a thrilling day ahead of us." 

Harry's body relaxes, always relaxes when it's Louis touching him, whether it's his universe or this universe or any at all - and that's a thought, isn't it, one he hasn't figured yet, that even when things are different and light years away he's still got Louis as his, and maybe that's fate, or at least something like it - and says, "recount to me? I feel like I've forgotten something." Understatement of the decade. 

"Well," Louis starts, reaching over Harry's shoulders and grabbing his body wash and loofah. "We've got a positively exciting radio interview in about an hour that we'll probably be late to, lunch reservations at the new place on Soho that we'll probably be late to, and then a charity concert..."

"That we'll probably be late to," Harry finishes, quirking his lips up as he gets his own things and starts washing himself quickly, the shower quiet save for the water and their breathing. 

Louis finally replies, "will we make it? Only time can tell." He taps the side of Harry's neck in a request for him to bend his head down the few inches so Louis can wash his hair. Harry grabs the shampoo and hands it to Louis, tilting his head back and sighing contentedly once Louis' hands start massaging his scalp. The angle is uncomfortable but the feel of Louis' hands in his hair more than makes up for it, his fingernails scratching gently before turning Harry so he can rinse. 

"Probably not," Harry tells him after spitting out the bitter mix of water and shampoo that sneaked its way into his mouth. 

"You're supposed to comfort me and tell me it'll all be fine, Styles." Louis ducks his head as Harry does his hair for him, stepping under the spray of the water only a minute or so later. They're both clean now, body and hair sparkling, but neither makes moves to exit the shower or even turn off the quickly cooling water. Louis looks at Harry, hair dripping into his blue eyes, and swipes Harry's own wet fringe off his forehead, leaving his hand up on Harry's neck and stepping closer. "What type of boyfriend are you?"

"A shoddy one, I'd imagine," Harry breathes, closing his eyes as Louis pulls him down for a kiss and reaching a hand out to grip at the fleshy skin of Louis sides, pressing them chest to crotch. Louis' mouth is slick and cold and chapped and, all things considered, the kiss probably isn't the best, but it's comforting and soothes Harry's nerves almost all the way. If he's got Louis, he can do anything, he thinks. Knows.

When Louis pulls back, pecking at Harry's mouth once, twice, three times until the two of them are smiling wide and doing stupid faces at each other, he comments, "I don't know. You might not be too bad after all."

A few minutes later, after drying off and brushing their teeth, Harry's stood in their closet, rummaging for something to wear. 

"It'll be 'round ten degrees," Louis calls out from the bathroom where he's fixing his hair. "And you know how freezing stations always are. Paul said to dress warm."

 _Paul,_ Harry thinks with a grin, relief flooding his heart. They've still got Paul. Although, he supposes, it's highly unlikely that they could survive any dimension without Paul keeping them from dying or, worse, jail. "What're we even going to discuss?" Harry asks. Louis joins him in the closet, immediately pulling a jumper of Harry's off the rack and pulling it over his head. It completely ruffles his hair again, and Louis will just have to do it over again, but it's reassuring to know that this is a silly habit that's remained the same. 

Louis looks at him strangely. "We just went over this last night, H. Are you feeling alright?"

"Not really," Harry admits, even though Louis couldn't possibly know how not alright he truly is. "Been feeling off since I woke up? Bad dream, I'd guess."

Louis' eyes narrow. Harry can almost feel the cold sweat down his back; he's never been more frightened of Louis' perceptiveness than in this moment. Louis only puts the back of his hand on Harry's forehead, though, tsking and commenting that, "you are a bit hot..."

Harry winks, half to lighten the mood and half because, well - and Louis rolls his eyes. "As in _feverish,_ you little shit. I think we've got some ibuprofen in the cabinets, hurry up and get dressed and we'll look for it during breakfast, yeah?" 

"How're we going to have time for breakfast when we've got 'bout fifteen minutes before they're here to get us?" Harry asks, pushing some clothes aside. He would've liked to wear the sweater Louis took, but it looks ten times as good on the other boy, big around the shoulders and hanging just a bit, so Harry can hardly find it in himself to complain. 

Louis makes a face at him. "Maybe if you weren't wasting all our time - "

"I'm coming, I'm coming, maybe if you hadn't stolen the jumper I was thinking of wearing..."

"I don't hear you complaining, though, do I," Louis says, pulling a pair of jeans and bracing himself against Harry as he pulls them on. 

"You're right," Harry says softly with a crooked grin, poking Louis in the crease above his collarbone. "You don't."

-

After finally getting dressed, while Louis fixes his hair over again in the bathroom, Harry volunteers to make the tea, grabbing his laptop from where it was on his bedside drawer and sprinting downstairs with it before Louis sees. He's got about fifteen minutes, at least; Harry knows from experience in any universe that Louis won't bother coming downstairs until it's deadset time to leave, and sometimes it’s annoying, but right now, it's welcomed. Very welcomed.

He runs all the way to the kitchen, putting the kettle to boil, and thankfully finding the tea where it should be and where it would be in his world. For the main part, most things have been the same. Except, of course, for the fact that Louis is here and not in Paris and, like Madeline had said: _Louis Tomlinson never left for Paris... there is no reason for him to go and no Eleanor...._ No reason to go. 

Harry exhales loudly and places his laptop on the counter, positioning himself so that he'll be able to see the second Louis starts coming down the stairs and will be able to close everything quickly enough without making him suspicious. He's already a bad enough liar as it is, he has no clue how he's made it this far into the morning. 

When he puts the laptop up, it wakes up to a porno paused on some guy with a dick in his mouth and quite a number of fingers up his ass, which. Harry cocks an eyebrow and tilts his head, finger hovering to press play and nagging curiosity of why that was the last thing opened and why there was such a rush that he didn't even take the time to quit it, but no, Jesus, he has a thing to look at. A thing. 

Which brings him back to what he'd been thinking: how the fuck is he meant to know where or how to find this so-called crash course? Is it just going to magically appear at the touch of his hand? 

When he minimises the porno, his computer only stays at the desktop wallpaper of the five of them backstage at what looks like MSG (thank fucking _God_ ), Louis on his tiptoes to kiss him as his boys crowd around them with bright faces and light touches connecting all five of them for a second or two before the screen wipes blank and a Word document pops up with ‘CRASH COURSE FOR HARRY E STYLES’ in bold red font on the first page appears. Twenty-first century miracles. 

_This is strange,_ Harry thinks to himself as he begins reading. _Really fucking strange._

By the time Louis is coming down the stairs and Harry hurriedly shuts the laptop screen and puts it aside next to the toaster and far away from the stove or sink, he’s read quite a bit and learned quite a bit more and he is... not freaking out. Harry is definitely not freaking out. 

It's - okay. He thinks the scary part is that the difference _is_ a difference, the one that keeps him up some nights and rattles his brain so fucking constantly - was rattling his brain just last night, even - and even so, so much has remained the same. The entire world hasn't tilted on it's fucking axis, they made it just as big, just as brilliant, except... better. And he hasn't even finished reading the entire thing. It's something to make his entire being warm up with joy and good faith and love. 

"You look like an idiot," Louis comments, walking into the kitchen and taking his giant mug of tea. It's chipped and has got the Power Rangers all around it - Lost Galaxy, of course - hand drawn Sharpie lines shooting out from the Red Ranger like sunshine rays. "Stood there like that. Huge mouth gaping."

"Fuck off," Harry tells him, grabbing his own cuppa and bringing it up to his lips. "You like my huge mouth." 

"Oh, Harry Styles," Louis sighs. "If only you knew... how much I like shutting it up even more."

"Show me, then," Harry says, putting his mug aside on the counter and licking his lips. 

The second Louis takes a step forward, an absolutely predatory look on his face, their doorbell rings. And rings. And rings. 

"I swear to God, Niall, I'll fucking kill you!" Louis yells out, pouting and stomping away to the door. If those jeans weren't that tight and his ass didn't look that good, maybe Harry would be able to use the term 'adorable'. As it is. Harry follows Louis to the front door, grabbing his tea as he does. He hopes Louis brought his phone for him downstairs, because he's at least ninety percent positive that if he tries to walk upstairs with his mind this clouded, he'll fall halfway up and break his leg. 

"Mornin' to ya, too," Niall says, grinning bright and pulling Louis into a hug. "Van's out back. We're very, very late, apparently."

"Well, you know popstars," Louis says. "Always such divas."

"You're right," Niall agrees. "Harry is horrible."

"Hey," Harry protests lightly, taking the keys off the rack and wallets on the little stand nearby and prodding Louis outside the door. "I finished before Louis."

"And they're always so quick to deny it, too," Louis says, shaking his head at Niall as if to say _what're we going to do with him?_ Harry rolls his eyes. 

"Piss off. Have you got my mobile for me?" 

"Back pocket. Shit, wait, my wallet - "

"'ve got it here," Harry says, waving the hand with the keys and wallet, handing the two to Louis and recounting in his head to make sure they've got everything before turning and locking the door.

In the car, Zayn has his head resting in a window and Liam is toying around on his phone. 

"Morning, Harry, Lou," he greets. Zayn grunts and makes a vague hand motion in their direction. Harry opts to plop himself down onto Zayn's lap instead of just next to him, making Zayn release a long string of creative expletives and death threats that Harry doesn't doubt for a second he'd follow up on, but it's not until Paul exasperatedly tells him from the driver's seat to get the bloody hell off Zayn that he does. 

"I could poison you and blame it on an anonymous fan," Zayn says, voice entirely even, eyes still shut. 

"I hope you slept beautifully last night, Zayn," Harry tells him honestly, grinning widely. It's wonderful, so so so wonderful, that he's still got his boys, that they're still _them,_ Zayn grumpy in the mornings and Liam too awake and Niall going along with Louis' bullying and _Louis,_ God, he will never get over that one. 

"We're stopping by McD's on the way there," Liam announces, leaning his body over so that Niall can get readjusted, making sure not to jostle Louis or Harry's cups. Harry is fine without, but Louis is always a bitch for the rest of the day if he doesn't get enough caffeine in the mornings, and tea-stained trousers can always be done without. 

"We are _late,_ " Paul says, pulling out of the parking lot and down the street. 

"So late," Liam agrees. "There's one like, two blocks down from here." 

"Shit," Louis says, poking Harry's thigh. "You forgot the pills."

"Pills?" Niall asks. "What pills?"

"We've decided to go off the deep end and truly join the life of the rich and famous," Louis explains seriously.

"Hey," Zayn says sleepily. "Thought we agreed you'd let me join you." 

"Addiction makes you forgetful and selfish, Zayn, I'm so sorry."

Harry sighs. "I woke up not feeling too good."

Harry sees Paul frown in the rearview mirror. "Are you alright? Do we need to schedule the doctor's? You know, it _has_ been a while since any of you got a checkup, we could make it a gro - "

"No, no," Harry quickly says, seeing the glares coming from all four of the boys, "nothing that bad. Please, God, no."

"You're grown men and you're still afraid of the doctor," Paul reminds them crossly, turning onto the drivethru for McDonald's. 

"Excuse me, Paul," Louis says, affronted. "I'm forever young."

"Don't," Paul warms preemptively. 

Liam starts, "let's dance in style, let's dance for a while, heaven can wait, we're only watching the skies... Hoping for for best but expecting the worst, are you gonna drop a bomb on us?"

"Ba dun dun," says Zayn. 

"Let us die yo -" Harry begins to shout, except that then Paul is turning the radio on and blasting it at it's highest volume. 

It's playing Kiss You. 

"I'm going to run the car into the Thames," says Paul, advancing the car for their turn to order. 

"The Thames is nowhere near here," Niall says. "We'd be even later."

-

Harry notices a similar, if not exactly identical, change in the other boys, too. He can't place his finger on it quite yet, but it's there, and after reading what he read, he has a much greater inkling as to what and why it could be.

They reach the radio station twenty minutes late, bags of McDonald's in their hands and practiced apologetic looks on their faces. Liam lies for them, naturally, claiming that they left their houses a whole hour ago but there was a horrible accident some ways away from here that they sadly came upon after stopping by quickly for breakfast. Harry almost believes him, and he's the one who helped flesh out the lie on the lift ride up here. 

The radio hostess waves it off, and once they're sat and have got the headphones on, taking full advantage of gaining permission to eat in here and unwrapping their sandwiches and removing the paper off the straws, Zayn looking as if he’s only barely staying alive enough to be able to make it through his McMuffin, she plays the beginning of Live While We're Young and announces that they have finally arrived. 

"Hi, we're One Direction," they say loudly into the mics. 

"So," she - Samantha - begins, "rumour has it that this is your first radio interview all together in _ages_. Why the sudden throwback? Are the big scary bossmen threatening you otherwise?"

"Our bossmen aren't that scary," Louis says goodnaturedly. Harry laughs internally at hearing Louis, of all people, say so. The very idea of Louis in his own universe saying that is unthinkable. "It was our, well, Harry's idea, actually. We're getting back to the grassroots? Is that the term you used?"

"I... have no clue," Harry says guiltily, taking a bite out of his hashbrown. 

"He's completely useless, Sam, Lord knows why we keep him around," Louis sighs. "But, well, basically we've spent a lot of time touring in the States and all over recently, very big and wonderful things, but we realised that it's been forever since we've done something... small? Relatively speaking. Signings, radio interviews, all of that. Things that're more personal, I guess. So we're trying that out."

"There's a signing on Wednesday in North London," Niall continues. "And if that goes well enough and safe, we're gonna try t'push for more."

"Well," Samantha says, sounding impressed. "That's... wonderful."

"Thanks," Harry grins, even though this is completely new to him. It is wonderful, though. Niall saying 'try to push for it' is something else, indeed; in his universe they haven't bothered trying to push for anything in awhile, and they hardly have time, with touring 24/7 and recording their new album during every free moment they have. It makes Harry wonder just how much more lenient things are over here.

"Well, you heard Niall, kids. Keep this upcoming signing safe, and you might even get more. Now, boys, before we continue, can I just mention how much it hurts that you're eating Mickey's in front of me?"

"Oh," Liam says, frowning. "Would you like a frappe? Think we've got an extra."

"That's mine, actually," Louis says, "but I'll share with Haz, here, Sam - "

Sam laughs disbelievingly. "You haven't actually got to share with me, I was just joking 'round!"

"Nonsense," Liam insists. "Louis and Harry share plenty of liquids already, they can do with one more." Harry knows he can't be imagining the innuendo in Liam's voice. His heart almost picks up in anticipation of the backlash before he remembers that here, there is none. Jesus.

-

Through nothing sort of a miracle, Harry manages to make it through the interview without screwing up to expertly navigating through a crowd of fans waiting for them outside and only spending fifteen or so minutes signing before Paul says they’ve got to get going, even though Harry is somewhat certain that they’ve nothing else too pressing.

(A girl yells out, "Harry, I love you! More than Louis does!" and Louis presses himself closer to Harry's body as they walk in a single file line out of the small mob, whispers, "nonsense," in Harry's ear and presses his mouth against Harry's neck. Harry feels as if he is _burning_.)

-

The rest of the morning passes by uneventfully; Louis heads for bed the second they get inside, and Harry uses the opportunity to read up on the rest of the CC before going upstairs himself in a daze, not entirely sure how he's feeling but knowing it's not negative, crawling onto the bed and spooning himself around Louis' body under the comforter.

"D'ya finish the porno w'out me?" Louis asks sleepily, snuggling his body back in Harry's. "Wanted t'see the end."

"Didn't," Harry reassures him. 

"'K. Have to kill y'otherwise, y'know?"

" _Sleep,_ " Harry insists, rolling his eyes fondly. With all the news and discoveries he's gotten in the past three hours - just three hours, God, it feels like an entire lifetime and, in a way, it is - he feels like he could sleep for years without pause. 

"Yeah. Love you, babe."

Harry tightens his arm around Louis' waist, breathing in cologne and clean laundry and boy. "You too, boo."

-

When they wake up many hours later at about one, Harry half on top of Louis and Louis' palm positioned interestingly on Harry's bum, Louis announces right away into Harry's neck, "we're gonna be late."

"Why are we always late?" Harry grumbles, untangling himself from all of Louis' limbs and standing unsteadily. Some unfortunate habits cross the galaxies. Or - well, Harry doesn't even know how this shit works, and he's not even sure if he entirely does want to. 

"We might not actually be late," Louis admits, sitting up on the bed. "But I like keeping my guard up." 

Harry stretches, yawning and trying not to fall backwards. "What time's the lunch?" He thinks it was a lunch.

"One? No, like... 2:30. You're supposed to be the one who remembers these things, get all the way better again, you shit."

Harry looks at the watch on his wrist that he'd forgotten to take off before their nap. It's 1:43. "We could totally make it."

Louis flops back on the bed. "I wanna sleep for decades, let's reschedule the date."

"I won't be able to fall back asleep now, c'mon, I won't even nick off your plate."

"You're such a shitty liar," Louis sighs, all the while sitting up and forcing himself to his feet, leaning on Harry for support. Not as shitty as everyone thinks, though, if today is anything to go by. "Are you sure we'll make it?"

"Eighty-nine," Harry nods. Louis snorts and rolls his eyes, elongating his body and presenting Harry a reason to maybe _want_ to be late in the slither of skin between his jumper and jeans and the thick vein at his neck. 

They don't make it. It turns out the reservation was for 1:50, and when they show up forty minutes late, Harry's positive that it is their status and potential help in revenue that keeps the hostess from turning them back at the door. That and, of course, the way she seems to be eyeing Louis like she'd get down on her knees for him in the parking lot if he asked nicely enough. Or not at all. 

Harry almost wraps a possessive arm around Louis' waist (it's not always rational) before he remembers that he isn't supposed to before he remembers that it doesn't _matter_. It's been weird, kind of, doing it so bluntly and, like, together and alone. As alone as they can be with two guards driving them there and trailing behind them the entire time, but. Alone. 

When she brings them to a seat smack dab in the middle of the small restaurant, Louis comments, "Harry, hadn't you asked for a window seat when you'd called?"

"Um," Harry says. "Pretty sure?"

Louis flashes a smile at the host. "Could we perhaps get what we'd requested, or...?"

"Oh, right," she fumbles, blushing, "sorry, it's my fault, um. If you'd follow me? Do your, er, security guards want a window seat, too?"

"How 'bout it, Steve?" Harry asks over his shoulder at the two trailing too close behind them to be anything but security. One of them, Hudson, seems new and looks so on edge, as if he genuinely thinks he'll have to take a bullet for them instead of just making sure a fourteen year old doesn't grab Louis' ass. Harry doesn't want to put the added pressure of having him choose seats. 

"Anywhere is fine," Steve says diplomatically. 

So they sit. 

By the time their drinks are here, cherry Coke for Harry and a peach vodka for Louis ("Louis, it's 2:45, honestly - " "It's five o'clock somewhere, shut up, Harry - "), Harry is almost 100% certain that there are people taking pictures of them. There's a group of teenage girls sat at a table a bit aways from them, all their phones out and giggling. 

"I give them five minutes before they come up to us," Louis says conspiratorially, taking a sip from his vodka through the straw.

"Maybe ten," Harry says, flipping through the menu. 

"Would it add time or decrease it if I waved?"

"Wait 'til we've at least started eating before you try it out, would you?" 

Harry isn't used to this, is the thing. He's still somewhat uneasy, like he's waiting for the other shoe to drop any second. They're just... here. And it's such a big deal in how it's _not_ a big deal that it makes Harry's throat heavy, feel like he can't quite swallow down the liquid or hardly breathe at all.

"Y'alright, H?" Louis asks, concerned. Harry nods, afraid that if he speaks he'll vomit from nerves. 

By the time their food is brought to their table - burger and fries for Harry and pasta for Louis, very standard and safe - by a fumbling waiter who stares at Louis' mouth the entire time he speaks, which, _honestly,_ Harry isn't too sure if he likes this place, to be honest - there are almost definitely paps outside their window. Not even almost; there are definitely paparazzi outside their window, full stop. Harry is trying not to show how agitated he is, picking at a fry on his plate, smushing the soft parts out. Louis is more annoyed than he is; he's always been worse at dealing with paparazzi and has never bothered trying to hide his disdain for them, and this is clearly true of any universe.

"I," Louis begins, twirling some fettuccine around the fork, "am going to fucking murder all of them."

"That'd be pretty bloody," Harry says calmly, flagging the waiter down for a refill of Louis' drink. He tends to handle situations like these better when he's a bit drunk.

"I don't care," Louis explains simply, stabbing a piece of shrimp. "I want their blood on my hands. I'm going to strangle every single last pap alive with their own camera cord."

"All of them?"

"Yes, Harry," Louis answers, baring his teeth. "All of them."

"I'm fairly certain our lovely ladies over there can hear everything we're saying. Eyewitnesses to premeditated first-degree murder." The blinding flash of a light goes off, causing Louis to flinch. Harry scoots himself to the edge of his seat so he can press his calf against Louis', keeping that point of contact and not letting go of Louis' gaze until the other boy takes in a deep breath and visibly relaxes. 

"Good. Maybe they'll help me bury the bodies."

"You're hot when you're angry," Harry teases, winking obnoxiously. 

Louis rolls his eyes, but that's surely a smile that he's hiding. Or, well. Trying to hide. "And you're stupid for not getting angry." 

"I'm so angry," Harry argues. "Monstrous. Argh. Hulk mad. Hulk kill."

"Harry," Louis says slowly, nicking a fry from his plate. "Shut up." 

"Nah," Harry disagrees. "You like my mouth, remember? And the rest of me, too, I'd wager."

Louis kicks him under the table and raises his eyebrow. He's so shit at hiding his amusement. One of the girls screeches, "oh my _God,_ " and then they're all coming, papers and phones out and ready. 

"Darling," Louis asks the first girl, taking her Sharpie and signing her phone case for her. "How many minutes was that?" 

"Twenty-five," she breathes, grinning proudly and flicking her eyes to Harry. "Harry wins."

Louis sighs painstakingly when Harry grins wider into the photo he's already posing for. "As if his ego needs it any more."

The second they leave the restaurant, two paps come up to them, stupid cameras in hand, clicking away like their lives depend on it. Which they do, but shit, Harry isn't fond of paparazzi. 

"Louis! Louis! How was your date?"

Steve and Hudson wave hands and threatening glares at the paps in an effort for them to back up. It only succeeds in getting them like, two inches back. It's so invasive, five hundred leagues different them when fans crowd around them. At least then it's because they're legitimately fans, people who care about them and just want a chance at meeting their idols and getting a pic and a few autographs. These are older men occasionally shouting derogatory things and pushing into their personal space. Even so; treat others as you'd want unto yourself is a saying that his Mum's drilled into his head too many times for him to be able to ignore it. 

"Harry! Did you enjoy your day out with Louis?"

Harry nods, forcing a smile as they edge closer and closer to their car. Soho's parking system is so bloody annoying. Finding a decent spot that won't get you towed away actually near your destination is practically impossible. "It was great, thanks, mate."

Hudson opens the backseat door, ushering Harry in as Steve goes around to start the car. 

"Is it true that Louis is cheating on you with Nick Grimshaw?" 

Louis, one foot in the car and one foot out the other freezes, his head snapping back. "Who the _fuck_ \- " Harry pulls him in around the waist, narrowly avoiding a bump on the head before Hudson quickly closes the door and some silence enters at last. 

"Who," Louis asks as they pull out of the lot, "the fuck is Nick Grimshaw?"

 _Oh my God_ , Harry thinks. _Oh my fucking God._

"Do you not..."

"Of course not, idiot, would I be asking you otherwise?" 

"Seatbelts on, sir," Hudson says stoically from the passenger's. Steve snorts. 

"Oh, Hudson," Louis sighs, turning his body so that it's sprawled out along the backseat, legs in Harry's lap, "you have so much to learn."

"Nick Grimshaw is - Grimmy? You know, from the, er, morning show on Radio One?" Harry tries not to frown at this, at the sudden knowledge that over here, he's got no Nick, all loud obnoxious behaviour and borderline offensiveness. Shit. 

"Oh," Louis grimaces. "That one. I always forget he exists."

"Hey," Harry defends a friend he doesn't even have in this world, "he's not all that bad." 

"Right," Louis says slowly. "Since when are you all buddy buddy with Nick Grimshaw? Are _you_ cheating on me with him, Harry Styles?"

"Shut up, Lou." Harry closes his eyes and leans his head back. "I've heard his show a... few times. He's funny, yeah? Witty."

"Witty," Louis tries, as if the taste is bitter in his mouth. "I've decided I don't like him. Zane Lowe is far better, anyway."

"You're a prat," Harry tells him. Louis pokes him in the cheek with his socked foot, and the smell almost kills Harry right then and there. 

"Coming from _you_ \- "

" - what's that supposed to mean - "

"Anyway," Louis announces, ending the subject with an eyeroll and pulling his phone from his pocket - his eyes are gonna fucking get stuck there and then Harry's going to laugh for a thousand centuries or maybe only five hundred; he kinda likes Louis' eyes, to be fair. "Cal and Ed keep texting me because apparently, you're ignoring them so could you bloody reply to them? You haven't been on your phone all day, I'm beginning to really worry, have you got cancer, or something? This illness must be dire."

Harry feels the weight of that leave his chest. He thinks the scariest thing about this, other than, y'know, hardly knowing what the fuck to do, is the possibility that someone he loves and cares about is no longer on that list. Having no Nick guts him, and even though knowing he's got Ed and Cal makes him feel so, so much better, Nick was one of his closest friends, too, and it's... upsetting.

"Babe?" Louis asks, prodding Harry in the face with his smelly foot again. 

Harry shakes his head, blinking and bringing himself back to the present. "Yeah, sorry."

Louis frowns. "You zoned out. We're home."

Harry finally notices that the car has come to a total standstill in the back of their flat complex. They thank Steve and Hudson and then are on their way, Louis brushing his hand against Harry's as they go around to the front and Harry unlocks the door.

"You don't actually have cancer, do you?" Louis asks once they step inside, toeing his shoes off and looking worriedly at Harry. 

Harry shakes his head, melancholic smile on his face as he takes Louis' hand to lead him up the stairs to their room. Louis is crowding Harry against the wall the second the door slams shut, running his hands beneath Harry's jumper. His palms are cold but the points of contact have Harry feeling warm all over. 

"Gonna make you feel better," Louis murmurs, mouthing at Harry's neck and raising the sweater until it's beneath his armpits. He pulls back and has Harry lift his arms so that he can pull the jumper up and off, rising on his toes so he can kiss Harry, slow and filthy and with definite intent. "Hate when you're off."

"Lou," Harry breathes, pulling his mouth back. "I - " Louis cuts him off with another kiss, murmuring _I know,_ into Harry's mouth. Except that he doesn't, Harry thinks desperately. For once, Louis doesn't fully get what's going on and it's like even after this entire day of being here, the full weight of it is just now hitting Harry. He's here, and he's a bit scared and a lot confused and he can't even tell the one man he tells everything. Fuck, Harry thinks. Fuck.

He's pulled from his thoughts by Louis dropping down to his knees and undoing his button and zip, shoving his jeans down to his pants. It's all one fluid motion, game set match, and that in and of itself has Harry moaning lowly, combing his fingers through Louis' hair. 

The great thing about having a boyfriend who really loves sucking cock, Harry thinks as Louis rubs at his thighs beneath his briefs before pulling them down to pool at his feet with the denims, is that he - Except that then Louis' mouth is on his cock, licking him into full hardness, and he loses his train of thought. 

Louis swipes his tongue across the underside, presses an open mouthed kiss on the tip. When he looks up at Harry, he's got a bead of precome on his bottom lip, and all it succeeds in doing is driving Harry out of his mind with want. He pants out a groan, tightening the hands in Louis' hair. He throws his head back, not minding the dull pain, when Louis begins to swallow him down. The inside of his mouth is whitehot and feels so, so fucking good. 

When he forces himself to look down, he can see the weight of his cock in Louis' mouth, bulging his cheek obscenely. Louis hasn't got him all the way down, even though he can and Harry really, really wishes he would, and instead has his hand wrapped around the base of what isn't in his mouth, twisting his wrist as he increases the suction on Harry's dick, humming around the length and causing Harry's hips to jerk forward almost involuntarily. It's so fucking _good_ , Louis is so fucking good, overwhelmingly so, and Harry doesn't know how he's meant to last at all. 

"Babe," he croaks out. His own voice sounds wrecked, and he can't even let himself imagine how Louis will sound for the rest of the day after this. "Please."

Louis pulls off, taking deep breaths that tickle the sparse hairs around Harry's crotch, and then he's going back down on Harry's cock, fitting more and more into his mouth until Harry can feel the flutter of Louis' throat muscles around the tip of his cock. He's moaning steadily now, entirely unable to help it, and every heavy breath he takes feels like it's sucking the life out of him. There's a low, sharp pooling in his gut, and he can feel himself teetering on the edge of orgasm. When Louis groans and swallows around the head of his cock, he falls off, coming down Louis' throat with a cry, hips jerking forward involuntarily. 

Harry slumps back against the wall, not letting his legs give in for fear he might never get off the floor ever again. Louis stands back up, leaning his body forward against Harry's and kissing him again, all tongue and the taste of Harry's come on his lips. 

"Lemme..." Harry trails off, snaking a hand in between their bodies.

"I already did," Louis admits with a raspy voice, raising a come-stained hand and grinning. "You, not me. How're you feeling?" 

"Better," Harry admits. _You're here, and that's always better._ "You have magic healing powers." He brings a hand up to trace his thumb across Louis' red and swollen bottom lip. "I love you a lot, y'know? Today was great. I'm glad we could, like. Do that."

"We do that all the time, pumpkin." Harry grimaces at the use of pumpkin. It's such a questionable petname, and Louis in his universe knows how much Harry despises it, and judging by the wicked glint in this boy's eyes, he knows it, too, and still uses it to torture Harry. Louis likes to remind him that he's said it a few times in the past before, but, well, everyone makes mistakes when they're seventeen. 

"Yeah," Harry says slowly. He... doesn't do it all the time. "But still. I'm glad we can, y'know? There are lots of, er, famous people who aren't... able." 

Louis is looking at him curiously. "Right. Thank God for Mr Malik, huh?" Harry doesn't know what he means, but he nods anyway. "Not sure we would've made it otherwise."

Harry feels his chest constrict. He curves his palm around Louis' cheek, licking his lips when Louis leans into his touch. "I think we would've. But it'd suck." 

"Right," Louis repeats, louder this time, stepping back and patting Harry on the cheek. "This conversations seems ready to take a turn for the severely depressing, and we have a charity benefit to get to."

-

Harry had kind of been expecting something smaller, maybe a bunch of old rich people eating caviar while they played their slower songs and he has no clue why, even though he's not misguided; they've done it before. This, though, is a huge stage outside and loads of other British artists and groups. Which is always nicer.

It takes an hour for them to reach the venue, and they're totally not late at all. Their soundcheck is last, matched with their performance and it's good, so good. If there's one saving grace, it's that they have the same songs in this universe that they do in the others. Harry knows these lyrics and beats better than the back of his hand, and it's always been a good thing that they're a total sham when it comes to the complete aspect of boybandhood, so there are no wretched dance moves to learn. 

One thing that's different, though, is that they sing They Don't Know About Us. It's one of Harry's favourites on the album; on particularly bad nights it's his number one, and he's always wanted so badly to perform it live, but circumstance and the fact that, of course, the important people in his universe don't trust them - and especially him - not to do something drastic. Not that he _would,_ shit, he's got more self control than anyone seems to grant him with.

Point is that they sing TDKAU. Harry doesn't know how this one works, but he does know that the lyrics hit deep, always have - he helped write it, after all - and he does know the lyrics themselves and when to cut in, all that wonderful jazz, so he's hoping that'll pull him through.

It does. To an extent.

Going on last has its perks; they whine and bother Paul until he lets them watch the other artists from the crowd. They sneak into the audience during Example, stealthily roaming up and down the aisles until they find semi-decent seats in a mostly empty row that can fit all five of them. And Hudson.

There are these few electricity-packed seconds when either no one has realised they’re sat around yet or those who have are in a state of extreme shock before it erupts and the people around them are screaming. 

Louis makes a shushing motion with his lips, pointing at the stage where Example is performing a slower song that doesn’t bode well with teenage girls screaming. Harry isn’t sure if it’s this or Hudson’s scary glares that do the trick, but they quiet down for the most part, even though there’s still some excitement. When the quick ten minute interval between performers gets there some time later, the frenzy starts back up again, girls getting out of their seats and rushing over until they develop a small mob of Sharpies and phone cases to sign on. 

Harry signs the ticket of a brunette in a Hipsta Please tee, smirks as he tells her, “nice shirt.”

Louis, from where he’s perched on Harry’s right thigh to sign the shirt of a male fan who looks close to passing out and is staring intently at Niall’s hair, snorts. 

"Ignore him," Harry tells her. "He wears the shirt more than I do."

The girl - Rebecca, she'd said - gasps. "Why don't you ever wear it out?" 

"Some things, sweetheart, are for the privacy of my own home."

"He means bedroom," Zayn corrects, reaching over so he can squeeze his face into a picture with the male fan. There is a shout. It sounds a lot like a dying dog. 

"Zayn's just angry because he didn't get enough beauty sleep last night," Louis says.

"Being that beautiful must take a lot of work," the twenty-something redhead calmly sat in front of Harry comments. She's on her phone and hasn't acknowledged them at all, but Harry totally saw the Best Song Ever video still she has as her lock screen, she's not fooling anyone. 

"Someone gets it," Zayn sniffs. 

"Harry, will you follow me on Twitter?" someone rushes out. There are so many people around and so many different Sharpies being placed in his hand that he's almost losing count of who he's signed for and who he hasn't. Whenever he almost resigns, though, Louis taps him on the shoulder and turns his arm in another direction. 

"Sure, love," Harry smiles, bringing the bright orange marker in his hand up to Louis' white shirt. "What's your, um, thing?" 

"Don't write on my bloody shirt," Louis says, shrugging his shoulder. 

"It's a white tee, you'll live - go 'head, tell me what it is." He presses the tip against Louis chest, smoothing out the fabric on Louis' body with his other hand. 

"Um," she says, blushing bright red." Righskrryson."

"I'm sorry, what was that?"

"Rimmingstylinson." 

"Oh my fucking Lord," Liam exclaims. 

Harry pauses. "Does your _mother_ \- "

"Some things are for the privacy of your bedroom," she recites solemnly. 

"Hell," Louis says, bringing a hand up to his heart. She looks sixteen, at most. There are some things that not even Harry knew at sixteen. 

Well...

"Yes," Niall nods, taking a selfie with a black girl who seems to be on his lap. "Fuck indeed.

-

They're different on stage. All of them, but Louis especially. Like... Harry’s used to the two of them not interacting much when they’re performing and it’s fine, whatever, he’s gotten used to not being able to run away and tell Louis every little thought that runs through his mind like he so desperately wants to and he’s got three other boys and thousands of fans he can give his attention instead. But things here are different in the smallest and most consequential ways, and Harry doesn’t know what to properly think. He wishes there was a word that could encompass everything that he’s feeling, but there isn’t.

It's dark by the time that it's their turn. After a speedy dress change into outfits that might even coordinate (Caroline is finally off maternity leave here, too, and even though Harry has been growing rather fond of going on stage in tattered jeans, image matters sometimes) and Harry making sure he hasn't forgotten the set list, they're ready. Almost.

They get into their huddle, a maybe stupid and probably repetitive tradition that, without fail, manages to ground the five of them, get Harry's pulse and nerves under control as they wiggle in and out. 

Niall chants, as always, "what team?!" And, as always, they ignore him and scatter away, rolling their eyes and getting into place. It's as much tradition as their circle, and when you've got the entire world going three hundred kilometres per millisecond and literally thousands of people shouting your name. It’s good to have traditions. 

Harry glances across at Louis, gorgeous in red and black, and bouncing anxiously on the balls of his feet and... He's thought a lot over the years about all the things he'd do on stage with Louis if he could and even though he doesn't even know if they already have some sort of rituals, or whatever, he's fairly positive that if it's him in any universe, it'll be the same pointless and bloody fantastic shit.

Harry bounds out onto the stage first to screams and applause, taking his place in front of the middle mic stand and beginning his first verse. It all boils down to this, Harry thinks. And fuck if it's not the best thing he could have ever imagined. 

"I said can you give it back to me..." Zayn sings, walking slowly to his spot. It's all go after that, his other three boys leaping in for the chorus. 

At the second verse, as he skips past Niall, Louis is suddenly in his face as he bellows out his favourite line of the entire song, "said I had a dirty mouth..." and leans in as he finishes the line. Harry's heart rate goes up, like, five hundred beats and he swears that's a cold sweat, but right when he begins to instinctually lean forward too at _kiss_ , Louis brings his palm up to press it against Harry's mouth as a block before smirking and breezing right past him. 

So. That's a thing. That they did. In front of hundreds of people. 

Harry feels his mouth curl into a grin. Oh, he's going to have fun with this. 

He directs all of his lines to Louis during Kiss You, walks over to him during parts where he should be on the other side of the stage. They sit on the edge of the stage for Over Again, since they don't have their huge elaborate setup, and the entire time, Louis is whispering in his ear, pointing out signs and mildly ranting about seeing carrot puns when this isn't even their concert, why does injustice follow him everywhere he goes - and it's pointless and causes him to choke and almost fuck up his verse entirely when Louis idly mentions how funny it is that there are still cat jokes when everyone in the world knows must know how much he likes dick, but still, like. Nice. Nice is a weak word, and he's sure the perfect one will come to him in a few hours or days but for now, nice will have to do. 

C'mon C'mon is a fucking hoot. During his hook, Louis directly turns his body towards Harry, crooking his finger and tapping his foot impatiently as he croons out his lines, the other boys stood behind him dramatically as they whisper _c’mon c’mon_ into their mics. It’s very reminiscent of Grease, like Louis is Danny Zuko with his boys beckoning Sandy over to the dark side. Maybe that’s Star Wars. Doesn’t matter; he’s always going to be Louis’ leading lady or man and that’s more than good enough for him, regardless of the film or characters. 

He only takes tiny steps forward, playing coy, but when it reaches his turn to start the chorus, he bursts into a run, grabbing Louis around the waist and lifting him up with a twirl as he sings. Louis laughs, kicking his legs out until Harry puts him down. Liam, always the picture of perfect focus while he’s singing, cracks a smile as he backs up Niall, shaking his head fondly. At his bridge, Harry is stood on one of the speakers, Louis at center stage, facing the opposite direction with Niall, and he jumps down, walking towards Louis with his mic high against his lips and a smile wide on his face as he approaches Louis from behind. Louis suddenly turns around at _my heart is racing she is turning around,_ of fucking course, and as Zayn begins the final chorus, Harry mouths along dramatically to Louis as he gets closer and closer to his boy, reaching his arm out. Louis takes his hand, finally, and Harry spins his under his arm, smacking him lightly on the bum when Louis shakes him off with an eye roll that’s betrayed by the warmth on his face and the way he’s grinning. 

It’s as if none of this is new, like they do the same silly moves every concert, and that makes Harry laugh at himself. The Crash Course definitely hadn’t said anything about this; he’s so predictable.

And then there's They Don't Know About Us.

-

"Harry cried during They Don't Know About Us again, I think that's the fourth time this month," Niall sighs happily. "One more time and I'll be a hundred pounds richer."

"I don't think it's really nice that you're making bets on my emotions?" Harry says, removing his concert shirt backstage and pulling on a white tank over his torso. 

"You should know better than to make bets with me on Harry's emotional stability," Niall tells  
Zayn, completely ignoring Harry. He grabs the water bottle out of Louis' hands, taking a swig before throwing it at Liam's head. 

"I thought he might have some self control," says Zayn, wiping his face with a towel. "Obviously I was wrong."

"Hey," Harry protests. 

Louis pats him on the hip as he walks pass. "I like that you have no self control."

In the van, as Paul drives to their favourite post-concert pizza place here in London, Harry finally allows himself to check his phone. He's been staying away from it all day, because this is already so much to take in, and he doesn't need the added stress of having to keep up with everything else. But now that it's all winding down to an end, and he's beginning to be able to wrap his mind around the concept, he supposes that he can handle a few texts. 

There are more than a few texts. His notifications are bloody crazy, dozens of messages and missed calls and blurbs for the apps. 

"Fuck," he groans. 

Louis, from where he's got his head resting on Harry's shoulder with his eyes closed says, "Didn't I tell you to check your phone hours ago?"

"You did," he admits, clicking on Ed's message thread. There are twenty-six messages from him alone. He tends to get frustrated when Harry doesn't immediately reply. Harry's been wondering about him all day, why he wasn't at this benefit, whether or not he still tours with Taylor in this universe, too. 

That's answered for him when he sees that the last text sent says _I'm staying in Tennessee to live with T permanently because you're a wanker piece of shit who has been ignoring my msgs and calls all day & I'm ending this relationship. _

_Hostile,_ Harry replies. 

Ed responds back almost immediately. _I'll fuckin show you hostile. FIFTEEN HOURS and I know that Lou relayed to you i thought you died_ and then _more like I wish you died._

"Make sure you let him know this is entirely your fault," Louis says, eyes still closed. 

"He does. He's yelling at me. Wishes I were dead." 

"He's such a jealous lover," sighs Louis, smile curling at his mouth when Harry places his free hand on his thigh. 

_Lou said to stop being a jealous lover,_ he tells Ed.

_No he didn't_

_No he didn't :( but he said you're a jealous lover and I think you should stop being one. Enough of me to go around .xx_

_Shove your x's up your ass. Don't make the joke. Are u two still flying in for that ny shit?_

Harry has no clue what he's talking about. "Ed wants to know if we're still flying in for the New York shit," he says, squeezing Louis' thigh. 

"Duh, Haz. Jesus."

_Duh, Ed. Jesus._

_Try not to get mobbed :)_

_That was low bro. Very low._

He's got a couple texts from Gemma reminding him to pick her and Mum up from the train station on Friday at 8 prompt or she's going to to tweet pictures of his porn stash from when he was 15, voicemails from Cal ranting about what sounds like Germany, and other miscellaneous messages. He replies to them all as quickly as he can, threatens to tell Mum and Robin where Gemma really was that one night when she said she was going to study with Hannah if she even thinks about it, and then all there's really left is Twitter. 

He takes a deep breath in. 

Harry's afraid of what he might find there. Well, not afraid, but anxious and anticipatory. Maybe all three. Triple A. 

His last reply was to a illuminarry yesterday ago who'd asked if he and Louis were fighting with many frowny faces. _No, but he promised he'd let me teach him how to cook something other than water and now he's avoiding me and playing FIFA in the room. So we're both going to starve .x_

The one before that had been to Louis, which, shit, that hasn't happened in a while. _@Harry_Styles: @Louis_Tomlinson I know you can hear me from the room and I know you're on twitter. Come downstairs._

Louis' only answer to that had been _No._ Harry barks out a laugh, scooting closer to Louis and relishing all their points of contact. 

Of the six media previews that show up on his profile, two of them are photos of Louis, one that's just his hair poking out from under his pillow and his middle finger flipping Harry off. The other is Louis sat on his lap in this very van, the two of them grinning big and holding up a sign that has the website and Twitter for what he thinks is the charity that this concert was for. Breast cancer, maybe. 

There's a Vine (Liam in his universe says he's obsessed, Harry believes that 'motivated' might be a better term) of Louis lying down on their couch in the living room, a blanket pulled up to his shoulders as he watches a show, and Harry seems to be shoving the phone into his face to take the video, and each clip is Louis saying annoyingly, _“Harry_ ,” until the final second when he jumps forward, seemingly to push the phone away, and the clip ends with a yell.

"Watching your own vines is so incredibly narcissistic," Niall says from across him. 

"What a big word," Harry drawls. "Did you get it from Zayn?"

"Was that a vain joke?" Zayn asks, looking up from his phone. "Because I'm honest to God - "

"It was a _compliment_ , I was highlighting your genius."

"What genius?" Louis questions. 

"Right, okay, but at least I passed history. With honours." 

"Now, now, boys," Paul says exasperatedly, his favourite tone whenever he has to be in the same room as the five of them altogether (or just Louis alone), "keep the fighting down to a minimum."

"Fighting?" Louis gasps, lifting his head from Harry's shoulder. "What fighting? Only brotherly teasing." He lifts his foot to kick Zayn in the balls. "Isn't that right, Zayn, darling?" 

"Choke on a prick," Zayn wheezes, doubling over. 

Louis places his head back on Harry's shoulder, nestling closer so that it's nestled in the crook of his neck. "You can't imagine how much I wish I were right now." He says it so lowly, almost as if he just wants Harry to hear, breath ghosting against his neck and raising goosebumps. 

"Keep it in your pants, Tommo," Liam says, so Louis kicks him in the shin, too.

-

The next day is spent at home. It's one of the simplest Mondays Harry has had in a while, but it's so nice. He and Louis don't wake up until one and then spend most of it up until seven in bed watching films on Netflix and going through the entire contents of their fridge, not even bothering to shower at any point during that time.

They make it through Thor and Thai leftovers, Captain America and half a box of pizza, the Avengers and a cold container of the alfredo pasta Harry supposedly made two nights ago. 

"I think I've gained ten pounds," Louis says as Iron Man sasses Loki, flopping his head down sideways onto Harry's lap with a sigh. "Maybe twenty."

Harry places a bite of pasta into his mouth, fixated on the way Louis' mouth closes around the fork. Once Louis' swallowed, he chastises, "you're not supposed to feed me more."

"You'd complain if I didn't," Harry answers. "Shut up, Tony's talking." 

Louis scoffs. "DC's better."

Harry inhales. It's a good thing he's already stuck with Louis for life. 

Louis fiddles with his phone during the last half hour or so of the film; they've already seen it together before, and his attention span is tried at best. 

"There's a lady in Brighton who got caught fucking her dog," Louis tells him, giggling into his arm. 

"It's Brighton," Harry says in reply. Louis nods, tilting his head in concession. 

A while later, he lets him know that, "the story with the rimming girl - those are words I wished I never had to say, fucking hell - is going around. I think people think we're either very cute or fighting again. Why are we always fighting? Maybe is because you're a no good vagabond." 

"Haven't even got a real job," Harry agrees.

"You can be my boy toy," Louis says, prodding his thigh. "I'll pay you good. All you've got to do is be available whenever I want you."

"I already do that for free," Harry drawls, looking down at Louis' head on his lap. 

Louis smirks and kisses his bare knee. 

As Iron Man heads straight into the deadly cloud, Louis reaches for Harry's phone on the counter. "What for?" 

"Someone asked what I'm up to, and I'm too bored to bother living so I'm gonna make an Instagram video for them." 

Harry slaps his phone out of Louis' hand. If he knows himself, and Instagram video came out in this universe, too, then he gave Louis a firm lecture on not using it. "Don't use Instagram for videos, Lou, it's copyright infringement. Of Vine. Only use Vine for videos. Everything else is shit."

"You seriously need help," Louis tells him, taking the phone back. He opens it on Vine, though, and Harry helps him figure out how to properly work it, and then watches as Louis vids a wide circle of the room, making sure to avoid the windows for fear that someone recognises a tree outside and figures out where they live. He gets the TV on a close up of Captain America's face to the empty containers of food littered on the bed and counters and then up to Harry's face, who grins wide and makes a kissy face at the screen and then down to his own to flash a cheesy grin too just before the six seconds times up. 

"Not bad for your first time," Harry says teasingly, poking Louis in the cheek. 

"S'kinda fun," Louis admits, going through on Harry's phone to find the tweet he'd wanted to reply to in the first place, "knowing that you have to get a story across in just six seconds. Maybe you've got a point, Styles."

Harry looks back to the screen, his lips twitching. "I always do."

"Don't flatter yourself, pumpkin," says Louis, patting him lightly on the cheek. He tweets it via Harry's account, letting the girl know that it's him, and then sets it aside and cuddles into Harry's lap, stretching his body out and breathing contently.

"Hey," Harry says lightly, feeling warmth rise up in his chest at the simple yet grand act of Louis putting a video of them together up. "Love you." 

Louis tries to hide it by turning his face, but Harry sees his smile and he cherishes it so much. It's been three years and he wonders if he'll ever tire of seeing his boy smile for him. He doubts it. "I'm pretty fond of you, too."

-

They spend Tuesday much the same. Harry gets a few requests from Lou Teasdale and Ben and James to go out or come over to their places, but Louis denies every single one, calling them himself and saying that Harry is otherwise occupied and will be for the entire day.

"You're a menace," Harry tells him. He doesn't argue against Louis cancelling all of his plans anywhere near as much as he should; he's too relieved and getting over the fact that he's still got them in this universe to grab the phone away from Louis where they're in their kitchen, Louis on the counter and Harry between his thighs, as he shoos James away. 

Louis wraps his legs around Harry’s waist, pulling him in. “I should be the only older man in your life.”

Harry snorts, stepping even closer and yanking Louis forward by the knee so that his bum is at the edge of the counter. “Is that so?” he asks, grinding his hips slowly into Louis’. They’ve both only got briefs on, and Harry has been half-hard since they woke up and Louis pushed him down the stairs because he wanted eggs and toast. Harry wonders if he should be worried that even at twenty-one years old, this man still can’t hardly manage to fry an egg, but he’s got more pressing matters at hand. 

Louis nods, “yep,” placing a hand over one of Harry’s beside his thighs on the counter and the other spread along the small of Harry’s back, pressing heat where their bare skin connects. Harry pushes Louis’ hips against his again, keeps a steady and slow rhythm going as he leans his head down to press his mouth on Louis’ neck, licking a stripe up to his ear that has Louis moaning and baring his throat.

“Do you want me to call you daddy?" Harry murmurs seductively, lightly biting down on Louis' earlobe. 

Louis pushes him back, glaring. "Why do you always have to ruin everything? In what universe is that sexy or okay?"

Harry giggles, coming back in closer and nestling his face into his man's throat again. "Some people like what they like, Lou. S'not nice to judge."

"You're a sick sod," Louis says. "And the eggs are going to burn."

Harry rolls his hips into Louis'; he can feel Louis' cock hard and nudging insistently against his own, and it feels good. It always does. "Fuck the eggs.”

Louis starts mockingly, “what a reb - ” but then Harry is shutting him up with a kiss, licking his way into Louis’ mouth and bringing a hand slicked by spit down in between their bodies to pull the two of them out from the slit of their briefs, smiling into the kiss when Louis moans breathily and thrusts forward into the grip. “Not fair.”

“All’s fair.” He positions as best he can, pulling Louis closer so that there’s no room in between their bodies before removing his hand and letting their cocks rub wetly together. It’s kind of awkward but it’s mostly good enough and Harry relishes the fluttering of Louis’ eyelashes and the way his mouth kind of falls slack as he pants into the air. He can feel himself getting worked up more and more, and this is going to be over embarrassingly quickly, but he’s still nineteen and with Louis looking like that, it wouldn’t be fair to expect more out of him. 

Harry brings his freed hands around to hold onto Louis’ bum, kneading the skin as they rut against one another. This is incredibly unsanitary, and he’s going to have to soak his counters with some heavy duty cleaner and a whole lot of bleach when this is over, but it’s so worth it. He lowers his mouth to suck a mark into the crease above Louis’ collarbone, just high up enough that it’ll show and he wants that, he really really wants that, likes knowing that in this world, it doesn’t matter if he does, that everyone and anyone will know that he’s the one who gave it to this man. And, like - fuck. Fuck. It’s this thought that sends him over the edge, gasping against Louis’ skin as he comes, hips jerking forward as the rush of warmth spreads throughout his body. 

He’s made a total wreck of his stomach and he feels spent and kind of ready to fall back asleep, but then Louis is breathing, “Harry,” and curling a hand around his neck to press their mouths together, his cock still hard, the head catching on the slickness on Harry’s torso. 

Louis’ kissing him desperately, all banter and teasing gone as he sucks on Harry’s tongue, obviously so close. Harry snakes a hand down to make a tight fist around Louis’ cock, stroking him roughly the way he knows he likes it when he’s this eager to get off. It doesn’t take much, just a tightening around the base and the flick of his thumbnail over the slit before Louis is moaning into his mouth and coming too, wetting Harry’s hand. 

They’re both breathing heavily as Louis comes down, slumping forward against Harry’s frame and huffing out into his neck. 

“You’re sticky and gross,” Louis murmurs, wrapping his arms around Harry’s torso and pressing an open-mouthed kiss onto one of the birds. Harry uses the hand that isn’t flaky with come to trace along the rise of the skin across Louis’ collarbones where the curling script sprawled. 

“Always so romantic,” Harry sighs, his lips quirking up. Now that they’re down from the high, it’s impossible not to realise how bloody cold it is, goosebumps rising up on his skin every second he stands there mostly naked with rapidly drying come. And, most importantly, the potent smell of burnt eggs. 

“I hate to say I told you so - ”

“No, you don’t,” Harry interrupts. 

“No, I don’t,” Louis agrees. “I _told_ you the eggs would burn. But did you listen? No. Insolent child.”

“You weren’t complaining five minutes when I was making you come,” Harry reminds him, slapping the other man not so lightly on his inner thigh. In return, Louis glares and punches him on the side of his stomach where he knows Harry is sensitive, laughing triumphantly when Harry gasps from the pain. 

“You’re _such_ a shit,” he says, even as he burrows his face into Louis’ neck. 

“I’m your shit,” Louis says. 

Harry tries not to giggle, but he fails, and as he breathes out the laughter, he looks up to see Louis’ eyes bright and twinkling as he attempts to hold back his own. “Maybe that phrasing could have used a little work,” Louis finally says.

“Maybe,” Harry agrees.

-

Harry’s phone starts ringing sometime around six AM the next morning.

The problem, he thinks, is that he hasn’t actually slept for the night yet. 

Louis looks up from where he's got his mouth around Harry's cock, his eyes watering and spit dribbling out of the sides. Harry squeezes his eyes tight and fists his hands into the sheets, his back arching slightly when Louis gently takes hold of his balls and rolls them between his fingers. 

Louis must be trying to say something, but apparently he's forgotten what he's currently in the middle of and all it results in is a tight vibration around his cock that has him going insane.

"Fuck," he gasps, trying not to fuck into Louis' mouth. Harry feels the weight of the entire world's disappointment when Louis pulls up, wiping his mouth with the back of his palm to say with a fucked-out voice, "pick up."

Harry stares at him incredulously, but all Louis does in reply to that is to tilt his head, as if to prompt Harry to hurry up. Harry doesn't even bother to check who's calling when he grapples his phone from the drawer, because he's hard and had his boyfriend's mouth around his dick and it felt _good_ and now he's just feeling bitter and automatic hate for whoever it is. He doesn't hate easily, but this is definitely deserving of it. 

"What?" he snaps into the phone, rolling his hips up and giving Louis a desperate look in hopes that he'll continue what he was doing. 

"Good morning to you, too, Harry," Liam says into the speaker. "How'd you sleep? Are you even awake right now?" 

"Now isn't a good time," Harry strains out, fighting the urge to moan when Louis is suddenly dipping his head back down and licking stripes down the underside of Harry's cock, a firm grip around the base as he holds it in place. 

"As good a time as any," Liam sings. If Harry was less preoccupied, he'd be able to tease Liam about - something, he knows there's something to tease Liam about, but as Louis sucks at the head of his cock, he can hardly remember what. "Anyway, Paul told me to tell you and Lou to get up and get ready. Didn't call himself because he knows what cheerful lads you so are in the morning." 

"That's nice," he moans, his eyes fluttering. Louis' steadily working himself all the way down Harry's dick, hollowing out his cheeks and giving some seriously intense suction as he does, the heat of his mouth unbearable.

"Haz, you ok?" Liam asks, almost sounding amused. 

Harry exhales loudly when he feels Louis' heavy breaths through his nose hit his skin. "Yeah, _fuck,_ yeah. I'm... We'll do that. Get up, dress. Ready." Using a two syllable word takes a lot out of him, and he has to bite his bottom lip hard to keep from crying out when Louis deepthroats him, his nose bumping Harry's pelvic bone. He's positive his teeth break skin, but not even the tangy taste of the little drop of blood can help center him. Louis has spent fifteen hard-working moments getting Harry hard again after their last go, and Liam is making it difficult for Harry to do his man right and honour that. By coming. He needs to come. He's _going_ to come, definitely, feeling Louis swallow around his length and watching the way he bobs his head up and down determinedly, his lips stretched wide around the girth of Harry's cock. 

"Right lad. Gonna be by at seven-thirty, yeah? Nialler made us promise to do brekkie beforehand, but you know that, so I'm gonna go. And, y'know, it's awfully rude to keep having sex when you're on the phone." 

He doesn't let Harry respond before he's hanging up, thank God. It only takes knowing he now has the opportunity to do so and the way Louis hums before Harry is coming with a yelled expletive, his eyes rolling to the back of his head. Louis looks awfully smug for a man who still has a dick in his mouth and a load of spunk on his tongue. 

Louis smiles wickedly, crawling up Harry's body so that their legs are intertwined together, folding his arms on Harry’s chest and resting his head on them. “Liam?”

Harry groans and flops his head back. He’s suddenly exhausted, the aftereffects of coming and not sleeping a single wink hitting him hard. Faint light as the sun rises is beginning to filter in through their window, and he wonders why they ever thought this would be a good idea.

After their shower, as they stand in the closet, Harry mostly hiding behind the suits to stop any source of light from touching his eyes and Louis purposely moving the clothing so that the lightbulb hits him straight on, Louis reminds him, “it was your idea.”

Harry groans. For the tenth time since Liam’s call. “Stop talking.” 

He hasn’t even got any underwear on and can only hazily remember whether or not he put deodorant on. Louis takes pity on him, finally, and shuts off the light, pulling him in from behind his hiding place and leaning up on his toes to push a henley down and over his head. Harry slides the arms in, sighing and dropping his head onto Louis’ shoulder. 

“You’re such a big baby,” Louis murmurs fondly in the darkness. 

Harry resists the urge to say _your big baby_ because it’s still too early - or late, he wonders how one looks at it when their sense of day and night is slightly distorted - and he’s far too sleep-deprived for him to be able to handle Louis smiling at him that way he does. Not that he ever can handle it, but, well. “Only reason you’re not falling over your feet is because you stopped in the middle of me sucking you to get a cup of Yorkshire at four AM.”

“When you say it like that, you make it sound like something’s the matter with it,” Louis sniffs, prodding him in the back and forcibly turning him around so that he’s facing his side and row of trousers. “I was falling asleep. We can’t all be as young and spry as you.” 

“I had your _cock_ in my _mouth_ and you were falling asleep,” Harry says, voice sluggish and slower than usual ( _God forbid_ , he can hear Louis sighing) as he sifts through his jeans. As if he doesn’t just wear the same one every day. He likes building up the hype, though, and it helps tamper Louis’ annoyance if he thinks that he’s at least considering wearing another pair. He does just end up getting the same black ones though, leaning against the wall to fit them. They’re ragged and worn out, but they’re a lot comfier than they look, and it’s weird, to think about how so much is different here but so much is the same, too, especially the small things like his favourite pair of denims and Louis’ prefered brand of tea. If Harry’d known that he’d have something to expect in an alternate universe, he’d figure that everything would be absolutely different in every way. Like some flip-around. Back in his, the big people always said that they couldn’t have both the band and total freedom, sometimes in just as many words, and knowing that, like. He can. It was always a possibility. Shit. It’s impossible to wrap his head around. 

“I think you should look on the bright side, that I hadn’t yet already fallen asleep only because you did, in fact, have your mouth on my prick.”

“You don’t make any sense,” Harry sighs, reaching a hand in to tuck his cock back. Not putting on briefs might not have been his best decision, but it’s too late to go back now. Commando is more comfortable, anyway. Less clothes, the better. 

Louis ignores him. "Did you remember to call the hotel about the reservations?" Louis asks him. 

"Um," Harry answers. Once again, he has no clue what Louis is talking about. "Sure?" 

Louis gives him the absolutely most scathing look. Harry winces and hurries to add, "I'll make sure to call and check that I did."

"Right answer," Louis says. Harry hasn't noticed what shirt he chose to wear until now, and - 

"I thought you hated this shirt," he says innocently, even as he feels his blood pulse. It shouldn't be possible, he's come more times in the past few hours than is even comfortable and just the fabric of his jeans brushing against his dick is enough to make him want to hiss from oversensitivity, but seeing as how he's in an alternate dimension, he thinks it's fair to say that he's not the best at following the basic laws of nature and mankind. 

Louis purses his lips, grabbing his maroon hoodie and sliding it on. It stays unzipped, though, and that definitely doesn't hide the tall block of _Hipsta Please_ imprinted onto the grey tee. It's too big on him. Not like a dress or anything so extreme, but it hangs and shows a bit of his collarbones where it reaches the neckline for Harry, and they're noticeable, the differences, and have got Harry's mouth almost watering. And everyone knows that's his shirt, and Louis is going to spend the entire day wearing it, for hundreds of people to see during their signing, such a subtle form of - he doesn't know the word he's looking for. Maybe possession. Like, hey, _I'm wearing his shirt and he's mine and I'm his, and I want everyone to know._ Harry is possibly taking things out of proportion but he hasn't seen Louis wear what is unmistakably his clothing out in public in so, so long and if he wants to overdo it, then he bloody well will. 

"Are you really going to do this?" Louis asks. 

"One hundred percent. You're wearing my shirt," he says slowly, taking a step closer and bringing a hand up to trace his thumb across Louis' collarbone, pressing down and watching the way his tan skin lightens at the touch. "And... you look really fucking good in it."

He steps even closer still, so that their bodies are flush against one another, his other hand snaking around to wrap around Louis' waist. "You say that every single time," Louis reminds him, but Harry surely isn't missing the way his voice has gone all breathy and how he's arching up into Harry's body, as if unconsciously. 

Harry says, "I mean it every single time," and then kisses him. 

They don't really do much but kiss in the closet until it's time to leave, Louis' lips pliant under Harry's mouth and his tongue sucking hard and tracing all the corner's of Harry's like they've got all the time in the world. By the time Niall is knocking at their door and rushing them out, both their lips are swollen and kiss-red and oversensitive to the touch, but Harry can hardly say that either of them mind.

-

It's still faint out when they're entering the diner, the five of them along with Paul, Hudson and Matt, a veteran security bloke, trailing behind and looking right menacing.

There are people, but thankfully not many, seeing as how it's arse o'clock and most prefer sleeping in when they can. On any other Wednesday in the middle of fall, it'd probably be privy to a few teens skipping early classes, but it's a bank holiday and Harry is ever-grateful. Paul makes them take place in a corner, ignoring Louis and Niall's whines and requests for a window spot as Matt attaches a smaller table to a booth with minimum effort. 

"Louis," Paul starts, tone even. "if you don't be quiet right now, I'm going to make you get whole wheat pancakes. And no meat." 

Louis' mouth shuts so quickly Harry imagines it must hurt. He's glaring at Paul, and Paul looks like he's just figured the cure to cancer or something equally miraculous. 

"Whole wheat pancakes aren't that bad," Harry tries, nudging Louis in the shoulder with his own. "I like them." 

Louis scoffs. Niall decodes for him, "all the more reason to know they're prolly disgusting." 

Harry doesn't end up ordering whole wheat, mostly because he's dead tired still and needs to get the most sugar-packed breakfast he can get, which ends up being double chocolate chip and an extra order of pancakes. Along with everything else the meal comes with. 

Even Niall is looking at him judgingly after he's finished rattling off his order. Harry scowls. "I'm hungry. And tired. Piss off." 

"How can you be tired when you were home all day? And the day before that?" 

Harry raises an eyebrow. Niall finally catches on and bursts into laughter, slapping Louis on the back and causing him to choke on a piece of bacon. 

"Not the only thing you've been choking on, eh, mate?" Niall teases, grinning wide like he's proud of his genius and totally original joke. 

"For God's sake, Niall," Zayn sighs, nicking Liam's only other piece of toast that hasn't been touched by the bacon, "stop talking."

-

The signing is a bit of a total success.

If Harry's being modest. 

A lot of people show up, which is well, probably an understatement; a lot of people always show up and it's still so amazing and overwhelming. You don't get used to it. But you do learn how to deal with it, to an extent, and Harry remembers how signings go, even if it has been ages, both in this world and in his. 

He gets to sit next to Louis, with Niall on his other side. He's feeling super hyped up from all the sugar he managed to shove down his throat only about an hour ago, and the coffee he ordered on a whim is really beginning to set in. (Louis had given him such a look when he'd asked for it, like _why are you ordering coffee when there's Yorkshire on the menu_ but Harry had ignored both him and the grimace he'd given when the drink came. He lasted two seconds before downing an entire cup of orange juice.

"You're such a shit," Harry’d said exasperatedly. Fondly.

"Don't know how you can stand to drink that bitter crap," Louis had said, stealing Paul's leftover syrup and ignoring the death threats. Harry had just rolled his eyes and let Paul have his. Louis can't drink coffee unless it’s loaded with like, fifty spoons of sugar, but refuses to have his tea with anything other than milk. He's such a bloody dilemma.)

His hands are shaking lightly on his lap, and he thinks maybe he should get up to get some water, but they've only just got here and the first fan in line is already walking eagerly towards him with their new calendar in hand. Too little, too late. He's not actually sure if that's the proper context for that saying, but. 

"Hi, sweetheart!" he says, grinning big as she slides down to him from Liam. 

"Hi,' she says, voice breathy and skin flushed. She's got half an eye on Louis, though, and Harry nods smartly to himself. He can relate. "You guys are really amazing, thank you for doing this."

Harry signs where she's opened up to February, leaving a _love you_ with loads of exclamation points and a smiley face. He wishes he could draw emojis. Maybe he'll ask Zayn. "Thank you for coming out to see us."

She smiles, and Harry is hardly able to finish saying, "have a nice day!" before she's moving on to Louis and rambling, "hi you're so wonderful and amazing and my absolute favourite, thank you for everything, thank you for existing," and yeah, Harry can definitely relate. 

They only have it set up for two hours, more than it usually is but special privileges for the home turf and all, but within the first hour, Harry's hand is suffering from carpal tunnel worse than he had at fifteen. A perverse comparison, but true. 

It hasn't been too bad; it's been really rushed, and there's been quite a bit of grabbing and way too much screaming and shoving, but all things considered, it's tolerable. No one gets severely hurt, and lots of people get things signed, and there are a few golden although very short conversations with fans who can manage to talk properly or ignore Hudson's requests for them to move on just long enough to get a word in. 

Louis ditches the jacket he'd had fully zipped up all morning, complaining about getting too warm and feeling stuffy, much to Harry's endless joy. The fan who Louis had been signing for lets out this truly awe inspiring shriek – it's a shriek, there's no other term even close enough to describe it – and is then exclaiming, "shirt!" 

Harry can tell from the way Louis is biting down so hardly on his bottom lip that he's trying to keep from smiling too big, and the sudden wave of affection and potentially lust – he can't really explain that one but he's nineteen, to be fair, he's always ready to go, at least when it comes to Louis, especially when it comes to Louis – that washes over him sobers him up a bit more than all the bottles of cold water Paul has forced him to drink whilst simultaneously making him giddier. 

"Yes," Louis agrees. "I am in fact wearing a shirt." 

"Oh my," she manages, but then Steve is gently encouraging her to move down the line. Gently.

The next person is marginally better, in the way that they manage to say _oh my god_ entirely before they're getting pushed out of the way, and it makes something in Harry feel so fucking good. There are loads of comments on it, but none that are like, negative or obviously mean. There’s a girl wearing the same kind, there always is, and she high-fives Louis loudly and obnoxiously, grinning so big when she walks away and like, damn, Harry likes this so much. 

So it's good. It's really good. There are more than a few coincidences of people crying, and someone falls when they touch Zayn _again_ and it's like, come on, how many times is this going to happen – but other than that, and having to watch her get water thrown onto her face to wake her up, it's a success. 

They don't get to sign for everyone, they never do, but when there's a small crowd gathered in the front of people who didn't get their chance, the five of them try to sign a few extra before they truly do have to get going, and it's not everyone, still, but a few more people are happy, a few more people are smiling just because they, like, got Niall to hug them for a few seconds, and that's still so amazing. It'll always be amazing.

-

The next few days are honestly some of the best Harry has ever had.

He feels kind of guilty saying that, shit, because of obvious reasons, but he can’t help it. He feels totally comfortable for the first time in ages, a different kind of comfortable, anyway, one where he doesn’t have to look over both shoulders at every turn for risk that someone could be watching him, them, someone could be fucking it all up. There isn’t anything to fuck up. Fuck if that’s not brilliant.

His muscles are - well, they’re tense, of course they’re fucking tense, he’s in bloody One Direction, but it’s not the same. There’s this... noticeable shift. The tension is entirely professional instead of the crazy thin line between blurring his job and his personal life. He doesn’t make any sense. He’s being inane. 

It’s getting colder and colder each day, another quick start to winter already in the works, and Harry fucking loves it. Winter has always meant only good things, even in his own universe - _especially_ in his own universe - and he can’t see that changing here. 

The five of them do a few charity things, an appearance at Will and Jaden Smith’s new film that they wouldn’t dare to ignore an invitation for, even though it’s on a _Wednesday_ (Niall supposes that when you’re Will Smith, you can have movies released on a Monday and people will still run to the stands to buy a ticket, which, yeah, true), and it’s brilliant, of course it is. They all manage to not seem too starstruck when they meet them, even though it’s nowhere near the first time, and just for that Paul gives them all Hello Kitty stickers on their foreheads afterwards. They all give him the finger. 

Harry gets a chance to see his other friends in between that, and after laughing at Harry for a solid minute so hard that they tear up, he and James help Ben house-hunt for a flat he’ll probably hate and move out of in a year, but it’s fun, it’s so fun, and the vibe between the three of them is just as easy-going and relaxing as always. 

After leaving a café when James demands more caffeine and food if he’s expected to deal with Ben’s fickleness for an entire day, there are a few paps waiting for them outside which, c’mon, _really_. Harry’s dealt with worse, though, there’s always worse, so it’s easy to navigate through without James' frap falling onto the still dew-slick ground. Harry gives just enough vague and half-assed smiles that there won’t be an article about him being a complete arse in The Sun. Although… it’s The Sun. He stopped caring what The Sun published about him a long time ago, but it’s the semantics of the whole thing.

Ben mumbles under his breath, “it’s always the same questions, why don’t they ever ask him about their sex life?” 

Harry resists the urge to slap his bag of donuts out of his hand. It’s clear that his mumble wasn’t mumbly enough, because the paparazzo closest to them yell-asks, “would you like us to ask about your sex life with Louis, Harry?”

Harry closes his eyes briefly and bites the inside of his cheek very hard. The cars are always so fucking far. Ben has this smirk on his face, even as he says in the same stupid volume, “my mistake.”

“No,” Harry answers. The pap looks like one of the usual ones. Andrew, Harry thinks his name is. He discovered a long time ago that remembering that they’re actually humans and not soul-eating monsters helps keep things in perspective. Grounded. “No questions about that, please.” 

“These are the things the people want to _hear,_ Mr Styles,” James says, serious as ever. Harry gives his cup such a pointed look that he shuts right up. It’s nice to know he at least has some authority. 

So things are good. Things are really good. He’s said this at least a hundred times, but it’s _true,_ things are amazing. 

That is, until Thursday, when - 

It’s four in the afternoon, and Louis is driving the Rover too fast down the London streets. Louis is whinging to Harry about not driving the Audi more often, and Harry is reminding him that they’re not home long enough for him to do anything more often, and somehow that ends up with Louis insulting Harry’s choice of filter for his last post - and then his phone rings. 

It’s Lou, and Harry grins immediately at the sound of her voice. He’s kind of shocked when she says, “I haven’t seen you outside of work in like three weeks, we definitely need to catch up, fuck Louis,” because where he’s from, they see each other most every other day, but he’s got her, and that’s brilliant enough. 

“Yes,” he agrees, unable to stop the stupid-silly grin on his face. “Fuck him, indeed.”

Lou sighs. “I don’t know why I thought you were above making the joke.”

“Hey,” Harry says, “I’m nineteen. Piss off. You wanna do a pub crawl?”

“I’m too tired to get drunk. Mickey’s and the entire Scary Movie franchise, yeah?”

“That’s amazing, you’re amazing,” he says genuinely. He has to make sure Zayn never finds out that he’s had McD’s; he was just complaining in the studio about getting cut off because Jarvis thinks he needs to bulk up more on actual muscle, and there’s no way he wouldn’t rat Harry out the very second he knows. 

By now, they’ve reached their flat, and Louis disappears into the kitchen to put on the kettle while Harry collapses onto the couch, phone still up to his ear and he leans over to squeeze his boots off. He really fucking needs new ones. 

“Will Lux already be asleep, or are we gonna fill her up on nuggets ‘til she’s no choice but to sleep?”

“What?” Lou asks, sounding confused. 

Harry starts to repeat himself, “Will Lu - ”

“No, I heard what you said, H, but what’re you talking about? Who’s Lux?”

Harry’s hands slip from the buckle on his shoe, arms hanging down limply, as he remains bent over awkwardly. “Lou, Lux, your - ” He hesitates. For whatever gut reason, he doubts he should finish that sentence. 

“Don’t know a Lux, Haz,” Lou says, and shit, Harry knows what she sounds like when she’s lying. And this… this isn’t it. “Think you’re confusing conversations, you’re always on the phone, y’know, gets blurry.”

“Yeah,” Harry says faintly. He’s going to vomit all over the rug. “I’ve got to - I’ll call you back, I need to, like - Later. I’ll call you.” He hangs up before she gets to reply, and then he’s holding his head tightly in between his knees, taking deep, rattling breaths that don’t _help,_ his lungs feel hollow and too big, and even though he’s swallowing over and over again to keep the bile down, there’s a new strong wave of nausea consistently pressing into his stomach. Shit. _Shit._

That’s how Louis finds him. Half a foot socked, the other half with only the first buckle undone, so fucking sad it’s past real tears or awareness or being able to move from this spot. Harry hears Louis, registers the thump of him putting what was probably the lemon tea for their voices down in the vague haze of whatever’s happening to him right now. 

He hears Louis make this soft noise in the back of his throat, and then a soft, “darling,” and strong hands gripping under his armpits to help him stand when there’s no answer. Harry has no idea how he manages to make it from the living room and up the stairs into their room, everything is all blurred around the edges - his eyes hurt like he’s been crying, even though his eyes are dry and he doubts he can even fucking breathe, no matter how hard he tries, let alone cry - and he’s getting woozy, but he does know that Louis is supporting most all of his weight. His arm is firm and steady around Harry’s waist as they slowly edge their way up, and it takes a long time, because the hollowness in his lungs is only getting worse, making the identical feeling in his heart expand, multiply exponentially. 

Louis spreads him out on their bed, removes the singular shoe, his jeans and shirt, puts the comforter all the way up to his neck before going into their en suite. Harry stares blankly up at the ceiling and hates himself a bit for not figuring this out sooner. It wasn’t in the goddamn crash course. 

By the time Louis returns, he’s remembered how to breathe again, if only through sheer force of will, and is able to sit when Louis curves a hand behind his neck and makes to help him up. Louis looks worried as hell, but he also looks focused and like he’s putting his own questions aside to make sure Harry is taken care of. Harry wishes he could tell him so fucking badly, it’s right there on the tip of his tongue, but - he’s scared of what will happen if he does. And that’s not the point anyway, the point is that Louis has no clue why this is happening, but he gets _what_ is happening and what to do. 

Harry is pretty fucked-up right now, but he’s hit with such a strong burst of affection for Louis, even through the frames of his melancholia, and that’s both frightening and amazing, the way Louis is always, like - he doesn’t know how to explain it. Louis is always _more_ than whatever situation presents itself, than whatever emotions or thoughts, and fucking _hell,_ Harry had always known that he’d love Louis so much it physically hurt in any godforsaken world, but now it’s been proven and it’s definitely true, will always be true, because Louis will always be his best boy and his favourite man. Even under horrid circumstances. In spite of them. 

“Open,” Louis says gently, holding a capful of Nyquil up to Harry’s mouth. Harry obediently takes it, and then the second one, lets Louis push him back down under the covers. The effect hits fast and it hits hard, and the last thing Harry sees before falling into a gloriously dreamless sleep is Louis’ face, soft and questioning eyes staring back at him.

-

When Harry wakes up, he’s shivering.

It’s outrageously cold in the room, like the air conditioner’s been turned down to five degrees. Louis is starfished across his body, all tan limbs and soft skin. His cheek is pressed against Harry’s heart, and when Harry starts squirming from the cold, Louis murmurs, “hi, baby,” against his chest.

Harry grunts out a vague greeting, patting his arm down the bed to get proper hold of the comforter and pull it back up over them. He more than succeeds, gets it almost over both their heads. He can’t help immediately sighing in relief. It's still cold, but it’s tolerable, and the solid heat of Louis’ body on top of his is helping for sure. 

“Wha’ time’s it?”

“Late,” Louis answers simply. 

“Didya sleep?” Harry asks, awkwardly bringing his hand up to rub away the crust in his eyes. 

"To an extent. Hey, Hazza, do you want to, like... Talk about it?" 

_Yes,_ Harry thinks. _So fucking much_. "Not really," he says softly instead. He runs his hands up and down Louis' back under the covers, letting out a long breath. 

"Right," Louis says slowly. "Okay. That's fine."

Harry feels like there's a stronghold on his lungs, his throat, his heart. "Boo," he starts, almost desperately, probably desperately, always is when it comes to Louis - when he's fucking made Louis upset and can't do anything about it, "baby, c'mere."

Louis turns his body, rests his arms on either side of Harry's head. His eyes really are so, so blue and so, so lovely. Harry curves a hand around the back of Louis' neck and pulls him down, pressing his lips firmly and reassuringly, easing away the downward tilt of Louis' mouth. 

Harry doesn't realise he's getting hard until he's fully there. Louis has been grinding his hips in small, easy circles, seemingly unconsciously. Harry has known Louis for too long not to be aware of when he has an ulterior motive, so although he doesn't say anything about it during, he knows exactly why Louis smiles into the kiss. 

When Harry opens his eyes, he finds Louis staring down at him, pupils bright and maybe a bit crazed. Describes his man perfectly, Harry thinks. 

“Hey,” says Louis, voice a little breathless from all the kissing. “Fuck me.”

It’s getting more and more heated beneath the comforter, even while goosebumps rise on Harry’s exposed neck from the cold. Harry’s briefs and the thin pyjama pants Louis’ changed into aren’t doing much to conceal _anything_ , especially not with their sizes, and Harry doesn’t need telling twice. 

He flips them over, but then the sheet is falling down to their hips and Christ, no. 

“Why are you getting up?” Louis asks, reaching a hand out, lips curling down when he doesn’t get proper hold of any skin. He’s so fucking beautiful Harry can hardly stand it sometimes. 

“If I take my cock out, it’s going to fall off,” Harry says, walking out of the room and jogging down the stairs to where the thermostat is in the living room. He sees the long forgotten mugs of tea still on the coffee table, his phone lying inconspicuously next to them, and feels a sharp pang in his chest. He shakes his head, sucking in a rattling breath, and turning to put the heat on before heading back upstairs, to Louis and warmth and actually being able to breathe. 

Twenty-five minutes later, Harry has two fingers in Louis and his mouth going across the entirety of Louis’ _it is what it is_ tattoo, sucking colours into every bit of the black ink. Louis is moaning all prettily, legs spread wide and chest heaving. 

“Harry, I _swear,_ ” he gasps, cock twitching against his chest when Harry twists his fingers just right. He’s been rushing Harry for the bloody longest. Usually, Harry would just give up and get on with it, but he wants to make this _last,_ and Louis needs to learn some patience, anyway. 

“Sweet and slow, Lou,” he says, trailing his lips down and licking a stripe down Louis’ belly right to Louis’ dick. He presses an open-mouthed kiss against the tip, getting precome on his bottom lip and swiping it away with his tongue. 

“Fuck that,” Louis says, grinding his ass back. “Fuck _me.”_

Harry huffs out a laugh, taking the bottle of lube from beside Louis’ left thigh and dribbling some more onto his fingers, making it easy to add a third digit. Louis’ tight around his fingers, squeezes down on Harry’s fingers in a way that he knows wasn’t accidental. 

“You’re horrible,” Harry says, laughing again even as his cock throbs, so hard it’s reaching painful proportions.

“You’re right. Fuck it out of me,” Louis says, grinning filthily down at where Harry is nestled between his thighs. 

Harry’s mouth quirks up, and he brings himself back up, putting his body weight on his forearm and shutting Louis up with a kiss. He doesn’t allow Louis to turn it fast and dirty like he tries; he keeps his lips shut when Louis tries to force his tongue in, doesn’t open them at all until Louis realises there’s no dice and sighs into the kiss, moving his lips against Harry’s. Harry finally opens his mouth then, wrapping his tongue around Louis’ and sucking gently. 

It helps lower the pace and allows Harry to finger Louis unhurriedly for another few minutes without complaints and half-formed death threats. Harry thinks he’s going to fucking explode. 

When he finally enters Louis, it’s - Christ, he’s not as cliché so as to say what he wants, but it’s just great every time and like… fuck it. It’s like coming home. It really is. 

“Stop thinking and _fuck_ me already,” Louis tells him. Getting desperate. He’s biting his bottom lip hard, looking up at Harry with manic and blown eyes, hands clenched in the blue sheets.

Harry puts Louis’ right knee over his shoulder, leaning in so that they are pressed chest to chest, and finally begins to move. Harry can feel Louis’ cock sliding against the hard planes of his torso, the slick-slide of the wet tip catching between the lines. Fuck.

“We’re not fucking,” he says, pulling out slowly, having to clench his fists at the side from the drag. It’s bloody unbearable, this. “We’re making _love._ ”

“You’re an assh - _oh,_ fuck, fuck, H—” Harry read somewhere once that sex is loads better when it’s with the same person for an extended period of time, because then they know your body so well, and you know theirs. You get how to control their nerves just so; where to touch and move and how much to touch and move. It adds a new level of intensity, knowing you’ve got someone who fully understands how to push your buttons. 

Harry has found that the best part of it is that he knows exactly where to angle to shut Louis up.

Later, after they’ve both come, Louis completely spent and unraveled from Harry’s long, deep thrusts and Harry collapsed and possibly suffocating Louis with his body weight, it's all nice and still and quiet in the room, save for the audible beat of their slowing hearts and breathing.

"Hey," Louis says gently, like if he's not sure if he should at all, "are you, y'know, better?"

Harry inhales in the musky, sharp scent of sex, presses his face into the crook of Louis' neck and is able to truthfully say, "yeah. Yeah, Lou, I am." He's not perfect or even entirely okay if he allows himself to think about it, but he's _better_ and he's got Louis underneath him and well, shit.

-

Gemma calls him ten times on the span of five minutes.

On the eleventh call, Harry gives up trying to block out the grating sound of Marimba and reaches over to angrily remove it from the plug. 

_"What?"_ he snaps out, voice raspy with sleep. 

"Well," his mum drawls. 

Harry flushes, scrambling to sit up in bed and rubbing his eyes, almost as if she's already there and he's got to make himself presentable. Oh God, he's still got Louis' come dried and flaky on his torso. "Mum! Hi, I'm sorry, I thought it was Gem, I would never–" 

"You shouldn't speak to your older sister that way, either, Harry," she chastises, and Harry hears Gemma shouting, "yeah, Harry, show some respect!" and then his Mum telling her to be quiet, they're in public. 

"She wasn't house-trained proper," Harry explains, covering a yawn with his hand and grinning. Least family's the same everywhere, too. 

Gemma must take the phone, because then she's saying, "there are pictures of you drunk off your tit at the ripe and illegal age of seventeen that Mum and even Dad still haven't seen, don't tempt me. Look, dumbbell, are you at the train station yet? We're arriving in like, fifteen minutes." 

_Fucking shit,_ Harry thinks, throwing the sheet off and standing up to rummage on the floor for his clothes from yesterday. There's a spot of come on the jeans and Jesus, Harry doesn't even know how that got there, but he slips a leg in and almost falls over even as he says calmly and assuredly into the phone, "yeah, 'course. Not like I'd forget. Might be a bit late, Lou wanted me to stop by Starbucks for him on my way." Harry winces internally; Louis' gonna punch him in the dick for pinning the blame on him. 

"Get me something, too," Gemma says. "Mum says she wants an iced mocha." 

"Anything for Mum," he says, slipping on his shoes. He never even took his socks off last night and they really, really smell. Can't afford the luxury of clean clothes right now. "Not sure I have enough cash on me for you, though. Or ever."

"I am going to sell your bank account number to The Mirror," she tells him matter-of-factly, then hangs up. 

Harry pokes Louis awake right before he leaves, looking like he's ready to make the walk of shame from his own damn house. 

"Whassit?" Louis slurs, blinking up at Harry with blurry, half-lidded eyes. A hammer in Harry's left lung. 

"Gotta get Mum and Gem. Get the bedrooms ready for me, will you?"

"Did, when you were passed out yesterday. You're late?" he asks, squinting at the dock showing the time on the bedside drawer. 

"So late," Harry agrees. "Whataya want from Starbucks, babe?"

"Surprise me," Louis says, puckering his lips for a kiss. Harry gives it to him, even while complaining that his breath stinks. "Love you!" he calls out as Harry rushes away. "Don't forget your wallet on the stand!"

-

In his world, Harry had actually just come back from visiting Holmes Chapel at the same time as Gemma a week ago, but hell if he's going to complain about seeing more of his family.

Mum tears up a bit, complaining as she peppers his face with kisses in the middle of the train station that it's been too long. 

"Mum, it's been a month and a half," Gemma says, rolling her eyes, even though she'd hugged him for so long and so hard that Harry's sides hurt. 

"Way too long to go by without seeing my favourite son," she says, patting his cheek and poking his tummy. "Darling, you smell like sex."

"Yeah, what's the white stuff on your cheek, Harry?" Gemma asks innocently, tilting her head and handing him her bag. Harry flushes bright red, and even though he knows he _doesn't,_ he rubs furiously at his right cheek.

"I'm going to _kill_ you," he warns, pointing at her and willing the blush to leave his cheeks. "You're the worst part of my life."

Gemma waves him off, having heard the same thing many times over. "Lead the way, lil' bro."

Harry manages, in between sips of his iced coffee and stealing bites from Gemma's muffin, to get a general gist of what this day will consist of. It's really vague, and he's definitely going to forget something and get smacked upside the head at some point, but considering that he barely knew they were coming, he'll take what he can get. 

Louis is up and ready to leave by the time they get back to the house, and after settling their bags into the guest rooms, the girls showering and changing, the four of them leave for a day of what Harry has been promised will be spent emptying every single shop London has to offer.

"Amazing," Harry says weakly, waiting for Louis to buckle up in the passenger's seat before taking off. Harry loves shopping, he honest to God does, but having to shop with Louis _and_ Gemma at once is enough to drive any man insane, and he’s already partly there. 

Actually, Harry realises, he’s in an alternate universe. He passed ‘partly’ about a week ago. 

"To Topshop," Louis declares. Harry resists the urge to snort, choke, and die. Fucking Topshop. 

When his mum and Gem tell him to get their purses from where they were still buried in the boot, Harry accidentally on purpose forgets. Thankfully, they went on ahead to the shop without him, and he can do this without getting yelled at and kicked in the balls. Gemma has really bony knees.

"Oh well," Harry shrugs, finding them waiting for him near the registers. "I'll pay for you." 

"Absolutely not," Gemma says, crossing her arms. "Go back and get them."

"It's so far and I'm so tired," Harry explains, fanning himself and patting his stomach. His car is right in front of the shop. Whatever, he's exhausted all his lying talent. "I've put on a few stones. So out of shape."

"We're going to reimburse you, Harry," Mum says firmly, eyes soft. 

"Sure you are," he says, putting his arm around her shoulders. "C'mon, then, Mum, we're buying out the whole damn store."

-

Gemma really wasn't joking when she said they were going to go through every shop in London.

By three, Harry is sick of standing, sick of driving, sick of holding bags, and absolutely bloody starving. After whining to his mum for the better part of an hour, she finally concedes to it being lunch time, "but nothing big, Harry, you know we've got reservations at six before that Mormon musical."

"Book of Mormon, Mum," Harry corrects her, throwing the fifty bags he's had to carry into the boot.

"Most of us have got better things to do than watch religious musicals, Styles," Louis says, getting in and slamming the door too hard, like always. 

"Piss off, you liked it," Harry says, not even knowing if Louis has seen it.

"I didn't wanna hurt your feelings," he retorts. From next to him in the backseat, Gemma cackles like it's the funniest thing she's ever heard and even Mum's mouth twitches. This is why he likes Niall best, anyway. Greg doesn't laugh at him. Much.

Harry knows he's said this for every day since he got here, but this day is honestly one of the best he's had. They get Subway for lunch, much to Harry's slight disappointment, but Mum went off on a rant heart disease and cancer when he suggested McDonald's, so. 

A couple of fans ask for autographs, but no one _screams,_ Harry doesn't get anything even resembling a migraine, and there's only a single pap even though they cruise through half on London, and it's brilliant, like. 

The only remotely unpleasant part is when Gem brings up having to see Lou before she leaves, and Harry is reminded of how much she fucking adores Lux, like she's the little sister she wishes she had instead of Harry, like she tells him so often, and he thinks he's going to throw up. Louis must notice a change, though; he ducks into a dressing room with Harry, kisses him so long and hard Harry's dizzy with it.

"You're gonna get me hard in front of my Mum," Harry murmurs against his mouth, smiling too big for a proper kiss. 

"You're so easy," Louis laughs, squeezing Harry's crotch.

"Foul play!" Harry exclaims, but Louis just laughs louder and runs out. 

Liam and Zayn join them for dinner, much to Harry's surprise. 

"Nialler's on a _date,_ " Liam stage-whispers after kissing Mum and Gem on the cheek. 

"How scandalous," Gemma says, hand to her mouth.

"I know, I was shocked he could get one, too." Louis chortles like this is the funniest thing he's ever heard Liam say. Harry's embarrassed to be seen by these people sometimes. Well. He feels like he should. Like he’s any better, though. 

"No, I meant that Zayn's actually showed up," Gemma deadpans. 

"Oh, shut up," Zayn tells her amidst the laughter. "I could always go home and sleep. You're all a lot more pleasant when I don't have to see you."

"I'm hurt," Mum jokes.

"'cept you, of course," he says, smiling cheekily. Harry knows that smile. Harry's going to stab Zayn in the ass with an ax. "The light of my life you are, Anne. Fire of – " 

"Excuse me!" Harry says, too loud in the low buzz of the restaurant. He ignores the judgmental eyes that turn to him, can practically see the headlines now: Popster Causes Disturbance Among Dining Guests. "Can you show some bloody _respect?"_

"Language, Harry Styles," his mum chastises, hitting him in the head with a menu.

"But Mum," Harry absolutely does not whine. He's an adult. 

"No buts," she says sternly. Liam is laughing so hard he's purple, and Harry hopes they all keel over and die. 

Three out of four will just laugh harder if he tells them as much, so he contents himself with warning Louis, "you're sleeping on the couch tonight."

"As if you'd be able to keep your hands off me," he snorts. Harry doesn't know why he thought Louis would be any better.

-

Harry goes to use the loo while they wait for the entrées, and when he exits the stall, lo and behold, there's Madeline. He's a lot less freaked out now than he was almost two weeks ago, which he's way thankful for; he's been close to meltdown in public restrooms before, and the experience is hardly ever pleasant.

"Have you got a thing for men's loos?" he asks her, an unmistakably amused tone to his voice.

"They smell loads better than girl ones do," she says seriously. "Hardly the point. How have you been, Harry Styles?"

"By and by," he answers, washing his hands. She's sat on the counter of the sink, and has the same clipboard in her hands from last time. "And you?"

"Horrid," she sighs. 

"Do you wanna talk about it?" he asks kindly. "I've been told I'm a good listener." 

"Nothing I can tell you without wiping your memory clean," she frowns. "Anyway. If you could rate this experience on a scale of one to ten, what would it be?"

“8.7, about. Nine." 

Her frown gets deeper. "Why not a solid ten?"

"Well," he says slowly, looking at himself in the mirror. He looks a million times better rested than he did two weeks ago. "There are a few things that weren't included in the course, weren't there." 

"Right," she replies, jotting something down onto the clipboard. "Your friend."

"And my goddaughter," he says lightly. He turns to face her, grabbing a paper towel from the dispenser. "So an 8.7." 

"Sorry about that. Can't all be perfect, y'know? But like I told you, we genuinely do try to put more good than bad. How do you like your Louis?" 

Harry feels his mouth curl up without his permission. Madeline lets out a short laugh and is writing something into the paper before he's even responded, "he's good. He's so good." 

"Not sure that _exactly_ answered my question, but it'll do. So, Harry Styles, how would you like to go back to your own world?" 

Harry freezes. "I'm sorry?" 

"Well, you've got a choice, of course. You can either stay here permanently or go back to reality. Not that this isn't reality, but, you know, it's not technically real. What'll it be?"

"I don't, you can't like - everyone's _out there,_ why're you asking me this now?" And what the fuck does she mean it’s not real, it feels real to him; the way he's just lost every bit of air in his lungs feels _pretty_ fucking real. 

Her voice is soft when she says, "you didn't think this would last forever, did you, Harry Styles?" 

Harry doesn't know how to respond to that. He didn't think _anything,_ he's been too busy attempting to make sense of any of this, of trying to understand how and why it's happening. Enjoying it.

She must sense something in his face, and Harry imagines it must be desperate and broken and maybe a bit scared, because then she’s continuing, “I can give you another day, if you’d like. Two, even. Let you sleep on it.”

“Yes, please,” Harry says softly, voice breaking on the last syllable. “I’ve got to, I need to go, they’re going to start to worry.”

“Oh, don’t worry about that. It’s only been about three minutes. I tend to stop everything when I walk into a room,” she jokes, mouth raising in a crooked smile. Harry tries to smile but it feels forced and awkward. “I apologise for the inopportune time, honest. Wilfred is outrageously impatient when it comes to this thing. Men and their deadlines,” she says exasperatedly, rolling her eyes. 

“Can’t you make the decision for me?” Harry asks. He’s just dried his hands, but his palms feel so sweaty. 

“Only in certain situations. This isn’t one of them. I really need to get going. Think about it, will you? There’s no changing it once you’ve made up your mind. Ciao, Harry Styles,” and then she’s gone.

-

Harry is unable to properly enjoy the rest of the dinner the way he’d like; he manages to act mainly himself, even though Mum keeps giving him weird looks like she knows something’s up. Harry wants to tell her everything, more than he wants to tell Louis, maybe. Wants her to hold him like he’s five again and is too scared to sleep in his own room.

Instead, he smiles at her and takes a big bite of his tilapia before she can ask him anything. He wouldn’t be where he is now if he didn’t know how to suck it up and shut the fuck up, anyway.

-

Turns out the ‘NY thing’ Ed was talking about ages ago - _ages_ ago, fucking hell, it’s been a week - is him playing Madison Square Garden. Twice.

He, Louis, and Niall fly out the afternoon after for a three-day visit.

“Is this going to spark rumours that Liam and Zayn have quit the band?” Niall asks curiously while they wait to go through customs.

“Deserted us to form a duo ala Timberlake,” Louis says morosely. 

Niall barks out a laugh. “Payno wishes he was cool enough to be Timberlake.”

Harry conks out the second the plane takes off; he slept horribly last night, even with Madeline’s request. He spent most of it tracing his fingers down Louis back, watching him sleep and how much calmer he looks when he does, like all the manic is being contained, if only for a few hours. Did a bit of thinking, too. A lot. 

When they land at JFK, after getting their bags and going through the whole shebang, they find Ed waiting for them with a neon orange sign that says in neon green cursive, ♥ NIALL AND LOUIS ♥. 

It brings the first entirely genuine laugh to Harry’s lips since he saw Madeline yesterday. He pushes Ed’s shoulder, says, “the fuck did I do now?”

“Haven’t answered any of my texts all day,” he says after offering to take Niall’s bag and ignoring Harry and Louis’ shared one. 

“I was on a flight for seven hours, Edward. And asleep.”

“Sure,” Ed agrees, walking and waiting for them to catch up to him. “You still blow.”

Harry raises a brow. 

“I don’t know why I thought you were above the joke,” Ed admits.

-

They do a late dinner at a pizza place next to the hotel they’re all staying at, and after stuffing his face full of greasy food and joking about with Ed, Harry feels kind of better. Kind of.

Like, fuck, man, it’s just _this,_ all of it. That he gets to come to New York with Louis and fucking do things with him without worrying that they’ll get papped or sighted and be completely fucked over. 

He doesn’t want to leave.

And he knows he’s a shit person for thinking this at all, he really does, it’s just that it’s so _good_ here; it’s everything he’s ever wanted and how he’s always wanted it and the thought of leaving is just dreadful. 

Harry figured out the difference in Louis and the rest of his boys a few days ago: openness. There are fewer guards up. And that’s something to think about, isn’t it?

-

The decision gets made for him Saturday night, after Ed’s concert. They go out for drinks, the four of them and like, every single person Ed has ever spoken of but whatever, he’s said Harry’s his favourite loads of times.

He and Louis retire to the hotel earlier than the rest of the lot. Ostensibly, Louis claims that he’s tired as all out and couldn’t dare stay awake another moment without streaking across Central Park, or something to that extent; Louis rambles a lot when he’s drunk. But Harry has seen the worried looks Louis has been giving him all night and suspects that it’s because of how off he’s been all night. 

“You’re a fuckin’ senile pair,” Niall complains over the beat playing, a bottle in each hand.

“It’s past Harry’s bedtime,” Louis says, throwing a tip into the bartender’s jar and placing his free hand on the small of Harry’s back while they go around saying goodbye to everyone. “You know I’ve got to take care of my boy. We’ll make it up to you tomorrow, Ed, promise.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Ed waves them off. Harry doesn’t think Ed wants him to hear when he whispers into Louis’ ear, “really take care of him though, yeah, mate? Doesn’t look too well. Call me if you need anything,” but he does, and Harry hugs him extra long and extra tight before they leave. Best friend here and everywhere else.

When they get back to the hotel, things seem to slow down. The two of them undress each other slowly, all wandering hands and soft touches. 

“You smell like booze,” Louis murmurs against his skin, pulling his arms out of the blue button-down he’s got on over a white tee that he’s not entirely sure doesn’t actually belong to Liam. “Booze and cigarettes.”

“You get off on that, don’t you?” Harry asks, popping open the buttons on Louis’ jeans. 

“Like you wouldn’t believe,” Louis replies with a grin. 

“You sound so tired,” Harry says, smoothing his thumb gently over the light lavender under Louis' eyes.

"You were fretful last night," he admits. "Couldn't sleep proper. Are y'alright, love?" 

"I'm fine," Harry lies. 

Louis lets out a humourless laugh and runs his hands down Harry's chest, thumbing the outline of the butterfly. "No, you're not. If someone's pissed you off, I'll shred their skin out with my bare hands and a nail to scrape their bones."

Harry doesn't doubt that. "You're awfully romantic for this late at night," he tries to tease instead, walking backwards and falling onto the bed, pulling Louis on top of him. Louis lets out a huff and braces his arms on Harry's chest before he loses his balances and tips off. The slight dig of his elbows is a tad uncomfortable, but it's not bad enough that Harry can't ignore it and just relish the feel of a naked Louis on top of him. 

"Gotta use my best lines to get you into bed with me," he says, rolling his hips. Harry is so, _so_ easy. "Clearly I didn't have to try very hard." 

It's quiet then, almost, just the soft sounds of their breathing and low moans while Louis ruts into Harry without much of a goal. Well, shit, that's a lie, they're blokes; coming is always the goal. But it's nice and calm and not rushed at all. Moments like this are some of Harry's favourites. It's almost enough to distract him from his internal conflict and the way he's more than kind of freaking out. 

Louis is kissing further indecision and desperation into Harry's skin, and when he jokingly singsongs, "one second I was ripping off your coat, now you’re living in my house, what happened to just messing ‘round," Harry _knows._

Back in his universe, he's still working on getting Louis to like them and stop complaining that its too indie for him to be able to even listen to without wanting to punch himself in the face. And like, that's it, that's exactly fucking it. Working on it. 

Things are obviously easier and ideal here. But maybe, Harry realises, if he was meant to be here, he would've been here. He's got a boy he fucking adores back home who's been through hell and back with him, has fought a fight worth fighting for the better part of three years and it can't have all been in vain. They've _got_ a goal, and this is it right here, and Harry wants to like... He wants that moment of Louis experiencing this. His first Louis. He wants a Louis that'll understand the brevity of the two of them being able to go out for lunch in broad daylight alone, and flying out to New York or LA or fucking Mongolia if they want without having to pay loads of people into not revealing where they are. And they're working on that. They are.

Harry would love any Louis in any universe, he knows this, but he thinks he'll always love his Louis most of all. 

He lets out a breath he hadn't been aware he'd been holding in. His bones feel lighter. His chest feels tight, though, his throat dry and eyes itchy like he's going to cry. 

He inhales big and forced himself to reply, "'one moment I was tearing off your blouse', Lou, you've got it all wrong."

"You're such a posh little shit," Louis complains. 

"Posh Spice," says Harry lowly, bringing his hands down to grope Louis' bum. "Sweep me off my feet, Becks."

"Oh my _God_ ," Louis says as if he's traumatised. "A posh and embarrassing little shit. Shut up and let me get us off." 

When Harry goes into the loo to get towels to wipe themselves off with, he finds Madeline sitting on the toilet. There's no clipboard this time, but there's a tiny vial in her hands. Harry is in a movie, he really thinks he is. This shit is still so surreal. 

"Good evening, Harry Styles," she says, lips twitching and so obviously not looking at the mess on Harry's stomach it almost makes him blush. Instead, he just grabs the nearest towel and conveniently places it in front of his crotch.

"Hi," he croaks out, pushing the door with the heel of his foot. "He can't hear us, can he?" 

She shakes her head. "Have you made up your mind, Harry Styles? I'm afraid it's now or never."

"What happens if I don't?" he questions curiously. 

Her face flashes dark for a second before she says, "you really don't want to know. Stay or go?" 

"I think," he says slowly, taking a deep breath and shutting his eyes tight. "I think I'm going to go. I'm going to go back home."

Madeline raises an eyebrow. "Are you sure about that? I have to say, I wasn't expecting that answer." 

"I'm positive," he says, actually feeling it more and more as the minutes go by. "How will, like. How will this go? Do I take pixie dust and fly out of Neverland?"

"Of course not, that's insane," she tells him exasperatedly. As if none of this is. "Here," she continues, handing him the vial. He takes it, rolling it between his thumb and forefinger. "Drink now." 

Harry uncaps it and does. It's tasteless, but the heady feeling it gives him reminds him all too much of the night in the basement and hardly being able to walk without Ed's help. 

"I'd lie down soon if I were you," she advises. "Make sure not to tell anyone what went on back in your universe, too. Wilfred didn't think you'd be able to handle lying successfully all this time, didya know, but then I reminded him you're in the entertainment business. It was absolutely lovely meeting you, you're a complete darling. Say no to drugs." And then, like always, he blinks and she's gone. 

Harry stumbles back into the room. He wipes the two of them off and then climbs under the covers, entangling himself all around Louis, limbs everywhere and heart swelling up so big in his chest he aches with it. Whatever he drank is making him feel nauseous, but Louis makes him so, so happy it's almost easy to ignore it. 

"You look sleep-stupid," Louis tells him, nuzzling his face into Harry's neck. His scruff burns the sensitive skin above his collarbone, but Harry relishes it. He doesn't know for sure, but he suspects that when he gets back, his Louis will still be in Paris, and that hurts a lot, he thinks, so he gets as much of Louis' touch as he can now before he wakes up cold and alone. 

"Lou," he says, "I love you so fucking much. You know that, right? I do, I honestly do." He feels desperate and maybe not entirely sure if he made the right decision after all. In his heart of hearts, he knows he did, but it's just so hard, it honest to God fucking is. He refuses to let himself cry. Louis would either get too worried or never let him live the fact that he cried after sex down. Except, Harry thinks manically, there won't be a Louis who remembers. Shit. _Shit._

"Mutual," Louis says sleepily, and then they're both under.

-

When Harry wakes up, he is no longer in a hotel room.

Judging by the glass of water and pills sitting on his bedside drawer, it has only been the duration of a single night. All he's gone through and it's been less than ten hours. Fucking brilliant. 

His phone is vibrating, but he isn't exactly feeling too up for conversation right now. When it doesn't stop, though, goes on for minutes and minutes, Harry finally reaches his hand behind his body and grabs it, narrowly avoiding dropping it onto the floor. 

"H'lo?" he greets groggily, rubbing his eyes with his free hand. 

"Baby?" 

Harry sits up so fast he almost gets vertigo. "Lou?" 

"Yes," Louis says. "Hi. Morning. Sorry if I woke you up, I know it's pretty early over there, it's early _here,_ but I really wanted to speak to you. I really hate when we fight, and we didn't even get to make up, and like, it was a stupid reason anyway, and I'm sorry. Really sorry. Shouldn't have said some of those things."

At this point in his life, Harry wouldn't be shocked if all the air really did leave the room. "I shouldn't have either. I'm so sorry, Lou. Miss you," he adds, rubbing his thumb over his mouth. 

"You have no idea," Louis laughs. Harry feels his mouth curl up and digs his toes into the soft five of the bed. 

"How's Paris?" 

"So lovely. Better if you were here, though. Maybe we should do the Pyrenees in Feburary instead of Moracco. Shit, Christ, babe, I've got to go. They're opening a new Topshop here and I am obligated." He sighs. "Love you, love you, love you so fucking much. Don't forget to water the plant."

"I never forget to water the plant," Harry says, a bit offended. "And yeah, yeah. I know. I do, too."

"Eleanor says hi and that she's bringing me back home to you in two. Cheers, love." 

Harry listens to the monotone of the line for a few seconds. He doesn't realise he's grinning like a fool for a few moments, but he can't even care when he does. 

He can do this, he thinks. Fucking knows. When Harry presses his thumb into his waist, there are none of the bruises he knows had formed from Louis gripping his hips last night. He doesn't mind, though, because his man is coming back home in a few days and they've got all the time in the world – this one and all the others out there – to form new ones.


End file.
